


these altered states and egos

by 1degenerates, anonymousorly



Series: these altered states and egos [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood and Violence, Drama, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Gang Violence, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Harry Styles is a Tease, Humor, Inspired by Music, Lilo Forever, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Multi, Mutual Pining, Niall Horan is everything, OT5, Oral Sex, Peaky Blinders - Freeform, Peaky Blinders!Au, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-World War I, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Smut, Temporary Unrequited Love, Threesome - M/M/M, UST, Vaginal Sex, by order of the fucking bronze boys, i would like to personally thank tom waits, liferuining gangsters, one direction - Freeform, sex in bathrooms, some say they saw him down in birmingham, violent behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27428038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1degenerates/pseuds/1degenerates, https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousorly/pseuds/anonymousorly
Summary: During the public unrest in Post-WWI England, two rival gangs clash and then conspire, concluding that they both have a common enemy.
Relationships: Gemma Styles/Harry Styles, Liam Payne/Louis Tomlinson, Niall Horan/Harry Styles, Niall Horan/Louis Tomlinson, Niall Horan/Zayn Malik, Zayn Malik/Louis Tomlinson
Series: these altered states and egos [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008456
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. once a brummie, always a brummie

The last thing any gang needs is attention. 

Unfortunately for Tommo and his Boys, the public murder of their boss marked fresh targets on their backs. Bullets and gore weren’t anything new in the dark streets of Birmingham, especially if the Bronze Boys were involved, but that fateful night saw one Bronzer Boss fall and another one rise, new leadership attracting predatory eyes for signs of weakness, invitations to challenge and destroy. That fateful night, Louis “Tommo” Tomlinson watched not only their boss fall but his uncle die.

That fateful night, months ago, he became Bronzer Boss.

A brisk Sunday morning found him with his right-hand man Niall Horan and longtime bookie Zayn Malik counting the week’s profits at Rams, a tavern owned by Niall's older brother Greg and the primary base of the Boys. It would open later in the afternoon following church services, an Eden for men to restart their sin count filled with adultery and betting before asking for forgiveness again in seven days.

“I was extended an invitation,” Zayn announces once he completed counting his share of the cash, “by Baron Cowell for a social at Eastleybury Manor with…encouragement that you both attend.”

Zayn is the best bookmaker Paul had come across in some time. As smart as he was gorgeous, gossip around town was that he came from a different stock, a free spirit working solo, but he kept any talk of his whereabouts and past vague. While the rest held prejudiced views towards the Romany, general census being that the Rom had a way of making deals that usually went in their favor, Paul and the Boys liked them and Zayn just fine.

Louis creases his eyebrows, fingers freezing from shuffling through his money. “Ya worked with him for some time, he’s never requested our presence…ever.”

“I insisted I’d consider only if you both could,” Zayn clarifies before lighting a cigarette, his second of the day. “He likes me, has some interesting prospects, don't fully trust ‘im though.”

Niall reaches across to ruffle Zayn’s hair, smirk bright as he playfully taunts, “Ya need the big guns, do ya?”

Niall, something of a tried and true jokester from the day they met as lads, became fast friends with Louis much like his Da Bobby and Paul before: instant connection; a click; an understanding, some queers dare say, carried over from a previous life. His hot Irish demeanor grew him a reputation as a no-nonsense motherfucker, doing the dirty work everyone heard about but none could even imagine doing.

Zayn rolls his eyes though smiles. Louis hassles, “That leaves you out, then, ye tiny man.”

“Oi!” Niall points a finger at him. “You and I both know I am not tiny. Not one bit.” Louis dismisses him, “Sure,” ready to ask Zayn more questions but Niall wasn't quite done. “You like my big cock. My big, large. Gigantic. Cock.”

Zayn sinks in his chair, amused yet embarrassed, and Louis takes the cigarette from him. “Fuck's sake, Nialler, ya smart mouth's gonna get you shot one of these days.”

Niall dramatically gasps, hand to his forehead as if he were faint. “You thinkin’ of putting a bullet in tiny ol' me, Tommo?”

Zayn murmurs- “Jesus” as Louis vows, “I’d never,” one hand across his heart, the other lifted palm open and facing Niall, in an oath. “Don’t have time to find another man I could trust to do your job.”

“Actually, I was going to say you like putting other things in me,” Louis almost chokes on the smoke in his lungs, “but good to know you love me so… That I’m the only one who can do _this job_ , eh?”

Louis had agreements, it could be said, of a sexual kind with both Niall and Zayn. His siblings were enough to care about without adding a preventable child, and Paul drilled in his brain how a mother could use his child to control him, and no one should control him. That’s why Uncle didn’t bear cousins for Louis, instead utilizing his sister’s son for an heir.

“Fuck off.” Niall laughs and Zayn pulls the flustered Louis to his side, refocusing him. “Why don't ya trust him?”

Zayn clears his throat, meets Louis' eyes somberly, “He’s…north, see, around Wembley,” and feels how firmly his whole body tensed, noticing how Niall’s shoulders hunched and arms flexed.

Venturing outside home territory was always risky, vulnerable to unknown threats upon departure and return. Red flags signified unguarded loot, welcoming with open arms and hood ready for the taking, and alerted a moving target, unwanted trespasser invading set lines. Attention was guaranteed and going south, it'd be from London's undisputed kings: the Grozny.

“I, I’m not sure–” he stammers, “Nialler and I should keep focus here, really.”

“It’ll be a couple hours most.” Zayn typically didn’t ask for protection, the events with Paul blooming a caution intent he hadn’t held before. Same could be said for most all the Boys.

Niall asks, “Does this baron bloke work with anyone around the Grozzos?” a moniker the Boys had for the Grozny.

Zayn shrugs. “Dunno. Not for his logs, at least,” referring to his betting history, dark lashes fluttering purposefully and unfairly from Niall to Louis.

It wouldn’t be the best idea for Zayn to go alone but it didn’t seem like the best idea for a Bronzer to go period, less so the Boss. Radars weren’t a good place to be, and they already were. Their presence wouldn’t go unnoticed, a certainty, and word reaching the Grozzos and other city clans meant bringing more attention to Brummieside. Going with Zayn would be Tommo doubling down on his Boys, and Niall had watched him question, rethink, hesitate every move since taking the reins.

Leadership was a learned trait and he had confidence in his Tommo – saw that desire, passion, and urge to prove himself that Paulie had – and he would do all in his power to nurture him into greatness. They were brothers, he and Louis, and he wanted him to be the commander they all knew he could be. Guidance, a little push, may’ve been required.

Louis’ knuckles pop under the table, gaze afar, so Niall grabs and turns his chin, smile crooked to encourage, “We’ve time to send a wee message, I think, don’t we boyo?” and his trust in the Irish confidence – and soft spot for Niall's pet name – makes the decision for him.

Evening of, Niall drove them to the manor, swigging whiskey from a flask in tailored tuxedos and stocked with hidden pistols strapped on their calves, switchblades and bullets in the pockets; Zayn, himself an independent contractor and not a Bronzer, never armed up. Ushered by domestic help through the majestic gallery, recognizable figures of politics and society staggered across the attendees in the lively great hall, the levels of elegance and prosperity in front of them incomparable to what they were used to. It was daunting.

A lackey informs Baron Cowell of his newly arrived guests, animatedly chatting with a sizable group about the latest theatre gossip, and when he struts at them, Louis’ nerves shake by instinct. He doesn’t belong here, doesn’t know anyone or what they were capable of, doesn’t have allies surrounding him, waiting for an indication to leap into action… He tugs the back of Niall’s cuff anxiously, a cue of uncertainty or panic.

Discreetly brushing their elbows, Niall murmurs, “They all look tame to me…too pompous,” as Baron Cowell approaches with his hand out and sight focused on, “My lovely man, Zayn Malik!” he hollers, all but yelling and getting the whole room to look over if they weren’t already.

Zayn blushes and shakes his hand, only to be pulled into an embrace that had Louis shamelessly wrinkle his nose in distaste and Niall apathetically blink. The baron was known for flamboyance and affection, which Zayn attested to of course, but the Boys didn’t personally know him and had reputations of their own to maintain; they weren’t going to smile fondly at another man’s arms around _their_ Zayn.

Very particular about physical contact and proximity, Zayn could count on one hand how many people he truly felt comfortable with. After a few moments passed and Cowell didn’t release, he glances back at Louis, eye twitching. Touch was a violation if not a privilege and Cowell was toeing the line.

Niall coughs harshly and the Baron jumps enough for Zayn to take a half-step back out of the intrusive arms. Louis shoulders in the empty space between them and grins smugly, snatching Cowell’s hand and introducing himself. Niall winks and Zayn restrains a smile from spreading too far.

Cowell waves a server over before properly greeting Niall and hands them each a champagne flute, babbling welcome pleasantries before guiding Zayn away with a generic pardon and firm arm around his shoulders.

“He’s got the etiquette of a dog,” remarks Niall after downing his glass in one gulp.

Louis scoffs, “How dare you insult sweet Peanut – rest her soul – like that,” and Niall chuckles, raises his empty glass in a mock toast, and strolls towards the bar on the opposite side of the hall. A woman in a long blue gown intercepts Niall’s stride with a bright smile and female friends behind her and Louis sighs, figuring he too should shake the attention Cowell brought to him and blend in, mingle.

Some hours later found him moderately tipsy and bored, on the terrace overlooking the expansive property. The main grounds looked gorgeous, even at night with the half moon illuminating everything in a gray haze. He surely could adore it more if he hadn’t found the owner quite so repulsive. The cold is bitter but tolerable, only a handful of people braving the weather every so often and paying him no mind, too engrossed by their own company to spare him any.

He feels around his inner jacket pocket for a cigarette and sets his third (or fourth?) snifter on the ledge, the first hit relaxing him more than the scotches all night.

Footsteps behind him near then stop next to him with the question, “Is this your first time here?” and he notices first the muscular neck and young handsome face, dark eyes and hair coming in second and contrasting a pearly grin that was easy to stare at.

He takes another hit. “It is,” and the man folds his hands over the ledge near Louis’ scotch, pointer finger adorned by a thick platinum ring with one large onyx jewel that momentarily blinded Louis in red, blood red. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

This bloke is a Grozny and Louis’ palms began to sweat, anger dizzying his already alcohol-infused mind. Tucked under his clothes, he wore an identical ring on a chain around his neck, found down the road from Paul's lifeless body.

The Grozny aren't simply enemies; they are cold-blooded killers. Louis swore vengeance, the discarded ring against his skin as a constant weight of what they took from him. His priority isn’t Paul’s death but his life, and his life had been the Bronze Boys. He needed foremost to honor his uncle, stabilize the aftermath and rebuild control, before plotting revenge against north London’s most successful outfit.

He pondered retaliation against the gregarious criminal organization ever since, now one of their own stood beside him…and there wasn't anything he could do but bring the fag to his lips, fingertips pressed white to channel any energy away from impulse, and just nod.

God. Fucking. Christ.

The man, still smiling, turns his body towards Louis. “You arrived with Malik and the Bronzer, am I correct?”

He _had to_ play it cool, _needed to_ not give away who he was or that he knew who _this_ was. “Ain't arrive with anyone,” he exhales up to the sky. “Just…a driver, I am… Er, passing time.”

“Ah.” The Grozzo emphasizes looking down at Louis' shoes and smirks. “It'd be more believable if your shoes weren't identical to those of the Bronze Boy's, no?”

God. Shit. Christ. “You ask many questions.”

“Well,” the stranger hums and steps closer, giving Louis a better look at him, “I need answers seeing we have bookies in town here and don’t need Maliks cutting deals.”

“And you'd be?”

“My apologies.” He holds out his ring-adorned hand, “Liam. Payne,” and the corner of Louis’ left eye twitches.

The Grozny Prince.

God. Fucking. Shit.

The Grozny were formed by two families, power shared by Grozny queen Gemma Styles and Grozny king Geoff Payne, Liam's widowed father.

Destined to be commander in the future, Liam was known for his blackmail tactics and clean murders including his second cousin in the infamous “Back Alley Loop,” where he broke every bone and wrapped each limb around his body by rope in an otherwise impossible contortion. The police photo, cleverly captioned “Twisted Man,” graced every cover of the tabloids and news publishers because it was less graphic than it was haunting and astonishing, similar to John Christie or the Black Dahlia. He was found innocent from lack of evidence (and the Grozny’s close ties with the Commissioner).

Louis doesn't want to take it, to shake the ringed hand, but nothing good would come from that, and when he does, the warm grip and metal band briefly hazed his vision in desire for grievance and torment…destruction. “Louis Tomlinson.”

“Ah, Tommo. My sincere condolences about Paul.”

Heart pounding in his ears, Louis could just stab this fucker right here and make a run for it, a very real temptation that grew by the second, but he knows better, knows that seemingly easy choice would bring a new hell to him and his Boys. He was an intruder in London's Grozzoland, at a manor he couldn’t point to on a map. Crossing territory stacked all odds against his favor – he wouldn't make it out alive if he killed the Grozny Prince.

_Honor Paul’s life first. Honor the Bronze Boys first._

He takes another drag, unresponsive.

“You’ve done some good work since, I hear.” Liam tilts his head, taking a full body scan of Louis, sizing him up. “You’ve also made some poor moves.”

“We came here invited,” Louis reasons, standing firm, “not on our own. We aren't your problem.”

“Aye but you are.” The Bronzer is attractive indeed, jaw as sharp as his glare and cold tinted cheeks, and he wants to touch him as much as he wants to jab him, wants to see for himself if this smaller man could match all he's heard about Paul's nephew– _Tommo_. “Coming tonight is a poor move.”

“Me only poor move's letting Malik walk in here,” he nods at the mansion, “alone, to ya Baron crony setting him up.”

Unbothered, Liam's lips forming the smallest of smug smirks _especially_ bothers Louis. “You lot shouldn't be here and,” his tone lowers, “considering your recent events, being my problem is a grave mistake.”

 _Grave._ He can't keep his cool any longer, consequences be damned. “I ain't scared of ya and I'll be damned if _you lot_ ,” he mimics, “take out any more of _my_ Boys, understand?”

Brow raised, Liam huffs flatly, “What are you on about?” and Louis could put a bullet between the Grozzo's eyes for insulting Paul.

“I'm on about _you_ ,” finger bouncing hard off Liam's chest, “and ya Grozzos murdering me uncle.”

“How dare you touc– Wa-Wait, uncle?– The Grozny had _nothing_ to do with Paul and insinuating as much is quite dangerous for–”

Louis didn't intend to show his cards tonight – to make known his knowledge of and revenge for the murder – but Liam's lack of accountability pushed him to. Baited or not, he isn't about to let the Grozny Prince disrespect Paul: only cowards don't own up to who they kill.

He reaches under his collar and dangles the ring, taking pleasure from the sudden silence and shocked wide brown eyes.

Gemma originally gifted a ring to his father following successful renegotiations with an arms convoy, in allegiance and gratitude, then came up with the idea of expanding to the whole clan as a reward for loyalty.

A surge of anger shoots throughout Liam, gaze breaking in horror and fury to the platinum jewelry hanging from Louis' fist. “How,” his nostrils flare, “how did you get that–”

“Not any pawn shop, Payno, Christ,” he tucks it back under his shirt, “figured ya be smarter for a Grozzo.”

Liam stares at Louis' chest where the concealed ring hangs, mind reeling between rejection and confusion. “We had no hit on him,” he declares, because they hadn't, and his main focus became how the Bronzer obtained it and dared to blame them. “Your false accusation and foolish actions will not go unnoticed–”

“My concern is getting my Boys home alive,” he iterates, shifting back to their prior exchange, “but after tonight,” he takes a step forward, “you best be damn sure I don't see your face anywhere 'round the Isle or mark my words–”

“Spare the empty threats, Bronzer.” Louis takes one last hit, a slow and deep inhale, and Liam's heartbeat speeds up, watching his mouth and hand and fuck _fuck_. “Oxford station. A week from tomorrow morning. Be there.”

“Right,” he exhales smoke to the side, feeling in control after forcing Liam to doubt himself, “and where the hell's being a traitor ever got you?”

Liam replies, “I'm not the one at the bottom of the totem pole here,” a subtle growl at the end.

He calculatingly looks over Liam just as Liam had him, slowly to his feet and up to his ears. “So,” he licks his lips suggestively, “you want me on top of you, is that it?”

Releasing a foggy burst between a sigh and laugh, Liam arches an eyebrow. “You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?”

“Capricorn, actually.” Louis drops the filter and steps on it, moving closer to Liam and speaking low, civility abandoned. “Or. else. what?”

Scoffing, Liam’s hand snaps up and curves around Louis’ throat as fast as a snake bite, causing him to gasp and cringe. “You’re too beautiful for bruises and broken bones, Tommo.”

Bronzer initiations weren’t the fluff of fraternity brothers but for women and men of endurance who could leave empathy at the door when the stakes were too high and no other option existed but cruelty, gashes, guts, wounds. One of the rites was to withstand a beating so severe that their body looked like it had been crammed in a meat grinder, the Lord’s prayer tumbling nonsensically from their bleeding mouth before collapsing unconscious.

His rite had been particularly horrifying, carried out in his mum’s basement by Paul himself for almost thrice as long as the normal. Starting with psychological torture until his unresponsive nephew lay face down in a pool of bodily mixture, he left him down there in the pitch black for three days. Naturally, Louis resented him for quite a while, slowly understanding nothing worse could ever _ever_ happen to him than that.

Louis swallows, coughing at the pressure it sent down his tight throat. He doesn’t struggle or grab Liam’s wrist, the grip under the windpipe neither fatal nor threatening. A deadly man – dangerous, in dominance, who could certainly shoot him, with a swift movement, to one of the many weapons he wore – didn’t bother him.

Death and torture weren’t fears Bronzers could have.

When Liam presses against him and whispers in his ear, he shivers and can't resist gripping his waist under the jacket, all of this awfully uncomfortable. “But I'll do it.” Louis closes his eyes, Liam kissing the side of his neck. “Be there. Alone.”

Liam needs to speak more about this accusation with Louis but not tonight, not here but somewhere neutral and isolated.

Louis swallows, coughing at the pressure it sent down his tight throat. “Sounds kinky.”

“You have no idea,” Liam breathes out, ignoring the flinch from Louis’ cock near his, releasing him with a shove. “Best keep it that way, charmer. Get lost.”

They walk inside together and part ways, Louis dashing to Niall and Zayn at the bar and muttering in a hush, “We’re going. Now.”

Neither ask for an explanation until Rory pulls out of the long gravel lane and away from the manor. In the back with Niall, Louis unbuttons his slacks and informs the two, “Liam fuckin’ Payne fired me up,” and creates even more confusion but answers would need to wait.

Because the initial task now is Louis and his erection. As Bronzer Boss, he could have whatever he wanted and the two already knew what it was.

Louis’ home base is a long walk west from his family’s Dorset House and on a row of quarter-million pound properties, premier road lined with full trees and thick shrubs disguising the magnitude of the grounds. A quiet and slow residential sector, he can hide there and do work without worrying about being found or killed in his sleep. Niall and Zayn have rooms of their own, though nearly all sexual occurrences found one of them in Louis’ boudoir.

The topic of the party emerges around midnight after a quick fix, Louis still horny and appreciative of Niall’s services. He shares an ample joint with Zayn, who assesses the Liam encounter as he waits for the two, and retells what happened.

“So he’s unhappy we were there and I was hunting his prey, I get it,” Zayn reasons, “but propositioning your first time meeting? That’s quite reckless.”

Half asleep and splayed over their laps, Niall hums. “Reckless?”

“Reaching into someone’s liquor cabinet after introduction is bold.” Louis hadn’t considered that. “Maybe strategic, even, but nonetheless, he’s put himself on our radar.”

Tommo shakes his head and takes the blunt. “They did that when they did Paul in.” 

Falling silent, no more is said.


	2. everyone is king when there’s no one left to pawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Per Liam's command, Harry takes a stroll through Birmingham hoping to gain information.

“He had _what_?”

After the Bronze Boys depart, Liam bolts over to Harry, his right-hand man and Gemma’s younger brother, harshly dismissing the curvy heiress who’d been glued to his elbow all evening. Surely someone noticed him with Tomlinson outside, so irreverent chatter would soon make its way around the party, cluing everyone of the spontaneous encounter and God, why had he acted so impulsively? Setting up a meeting with the Bronzer, who had the nerve to show his face at the manor, who possessed an icon of the Grozny. He saw what he wanted and in that moment, Tommo was it – he heard so much about him and, after hearing him, wanted to hear more. He wants answers.

“Payno.”

“Our ring,” Liam quietly repeats, absentmindedly spinning his own around his finger. “He. He had quite a tale, too, one I can't retell here.”

There isn't a doubt in his mind about the validity to the story. His demeanor shifts after realizing he is a Grozny, the anger in the Bronzer's eyes and voice during his accusation, confident in his belief. With lying, Tommo has nothing to gain and everything to lose. False accusations held dire, if not deadly, consequences and Liam doesn't think that lowly of him. No, the Bronzers are smart, careful, a reflection of their leader.

There is no shortage of dames on hand, stunningly glamourous and willing to be paraded like a blue-ribbon filly. However, the absence of a mother might’ve strained any curious ambition Liam had at an emotional relationship. He _did_ hold onto one modest broad during prep school, until his father pressured matrimony; he then promptly dissolved their relationship and her body in the river. 

Liam rolls his eyes. “How’s Martha?”

“Marcia,” Harry corrects, looking across the room to see his date being amused by the company of three men yet unbothered; the probability of her in his bed tonight remained high still.

“You sure about that, Haz?” Liam smirks, knowing her name was otherwise.

A renowned playboy who confirmed all rumors about him to be true, even when false for his own humor, Harry existed for two reasons: boxing and his family with special admiration for his older sister, a devotion displayed on his upper arm in the form of a tattooed gem. His interest in boxing was one of the only memories he had of his late father, a lesson in how hard work will always pay off in the end. He participated in matches at a covert warehouse on the other side of the river, ring managers focused on discretion amongst its fighters and gamblers in everyday society, although the brawlers left with rather cut-up and bruised mugs they didn't arrive with.

Harry narrows his eyes, first in disbelief at Liam then in reconsideration at… _Shit, it might’ve Martha_ , _actually_. He thought he had a Marcia…huh. Indifferent, he shrugs.

“Who do those bloody Bronzers,” interrupts their accomplice Grimmy, slim figure swaying in classic intoxication, “think they are?” and hangs on Harry to stay upright. “Certainly not the best career criminal this side of London town has seen, eh.”

Harry swipes the last two drinks off a passing server smoothly before Grimmy can, giving one to Liam. “I don’t predict Gem and Geoff will be open to daft ignorance who believe they can come here unchallenged.”

Retired at the ripe age of twenty-seven, the illustrious Gemma Styles had to look elsewhere to amuse herself and that came in the form of the ammunition runner James Crowley. From then on, Ms. Styles had a taste for the down and dirty, her palette once decadent and truffle-filled now slightly less so. 

She was in a covert speakeasy waiting for her beloved Jimmy to finish his deal with some ugly gang leader from Liverpool when she just so happened to glance over to the corner of the room and saw Geoff Payne. Well aware of Mr. Payne and figuring she had time to kill while her man sealed his deal, she sauntered over to his booth with a hand curled around her hip, an alluring glint to her eye and big red pout on her lips.

Over the next year, they expanded Grozny operations and, together, proved they were a force to be reckoned with; a mighty force indeed.

Grimmy slurs an incoherent agreement as Liam shook his head, correcting, “They didn’t,” and leers across the hall at the Baron surrounded by a lively group. Harry traces his line of sight while gently holding Grimmy off from taking his glass, “Damn weasel.”

Dealing with the Baron and his suspicious invites took a backseat to everything else the Grozny prince had on his mind: a fucking Brummie.

Liam relays the night to Geoff at the gaming hall of the Grozny’s social club, basement converted into a lively betting environment, and omitting or somewhat modifying aspects that involved Louis. As if to compensate for that attraction – it could’ve been his imagination, the heat rising from his face when saying _Tommo_ but – he downplays the Brummies more than he normally would and focuses on the Baron’s questionable invitees.

“His judgement never has been great, has it,” Geoff remarks as a craps table cheers behind them. “Malik?” Liam nods. “Thought he’d settled down, he comes out here just for Cowell?”

In his early 20s, Geoff started moonlighting for an arms runner by sitting at the docks sunup to sundown and jotting the vessels that passed through. He worked up to eventually replace the runner, who he had taken out by request of the Don, no questions asked, and his criminal career took off after.

“Baroness and her family are in Leicester,” Liam reminds and his father hums in remembrance. “Doesn’t excuse her brother’s outside dealings.”

Geoff agrees, “No. I will see to him,” then shakes the outstretched hand of a familiar passerby, one who showed up nightly after serving a smaller public position at city hall. “If Malik is a problem, we get rid of it.” 

Liam furrows his brows. “That is unwise as he has friendly connections outside the Brums. He hasn’t been a problem for us because he’s been everywhere else.”

“What of the Bronzers?”

“Wh… What about them?”

Geoff tilts his head back and forth. “New leader makes for fresh meat, no? And he came willingly, foolishly to our doorstep.”

“That’s,” Liam coughs softly, “certainly an option.” Geoff’s interest in them at least wiped away consequences and worry from Liam’s offer.

“We get there before someone else does,” meaning the takeover of Tommo, his gang and city, reasoning, “he’s given us just cause, son.”

Liam knocks the ice of his drink around the glass, his collar starting to sweat when he murmurs, “Has the captain followed up on that little bit of insight he told you about?” He forces his gaze to stay on the ice. “Don’t want to be spreading ourselves too thin.”

Geoff pounds a fist to the table, silverware clattering loudly to get the attention of the room only briefly, and leans closer to his son with a snarl. “They had the stupidity of showing their faces and I ain’t even left town yet.” Liam maintains a calm front, lips pursed. “What do you think will happen once I am?”

The police captain heard whispers about a national investigation of Geoff and his business handlings. The Grozny was a well-oiled, finely-tuned operation that covered their paths while producing adequate receipts and detailed paper trails, manipulation of starting and ending points with a reasonable yet fictional journey in-between. Local government wasn’t a concern, Geoff chummy with the force and easily paying off the council members. Regional cases pursuing them always closed due to lack of evidence suggesting further action: their finances, managed by Anne Styles, were well-organized, all lines adding up and all transactional slips checking out.

But the revenue department? National affairs only pursued serious violations or those with very plausible consideration, their time valuable and intent on carrying out large arrests and sentences. Even if they came up empty-handed, they refused to leave without someone in handcuffs or a body bag.

Being on their radar is troubling. Being investigated by them is a death sentence. If they wanted Geoff, they’d have to find him first and he sure as shit isn’t going to sit in London like a lame duck until they do.

He continues, intense and dark still, “My absence will not affect the Grozny.” Finally, Liam’s eyes shift to meet his fiery father’s. “Understand, my boy?”

Liam would be not Grozny Prince but _in de facto_ Grozny King for Geoff and with Gemma. He’s been groomed, tested, destined for it. Though hopefully temporary, it’d be his opportunity to prove himself to his father, the gang, and the city. Harry would need to step up in his stead but that’d be only one of the many new concerns he’ll inherit. Fuck, was he ready for Grozny King? Probably, and it’s not like it matters if he’s not.

Ready or not.

“Do you understand, son?”

***

“Such a looong drive,” Harry whines, slumping in the passenger seat with dramatic exhaustion as Liam drives them towards Birmingham. “Did Gem ask you to put a fuckin’ bullet between my eyes?”

Liam sighs, “Unfortunately not, though I may take the liberty of doing so for both our sakes.”

Harry narrows his eyes momentarily before a slow grin tugs his cheekbones, exposing the playful and harmless intentions. “Rude.”

“Impudent.”

They were a bit of an odd pair, constantly testing each other and challenging wits to prove a non-existent superiority since the day Gemma introduced them. It was in good fun, kept them sharp, and served as the building blocks to a once-new professional relationship and blossoming personal friendship. The night Liam killed his cousin in the alley, with the back alley loop, Harry had been right by his side as a lookout and they became brothers-in-arms when he dumped the body bag into the sewer for Liam, emotionally unable to completely finish the job. Despite being horrified at the thought of his father finding out, Harry vowed, “You won’t fail. I won’t let you.”

As of yet, he’s kept that allegiance.

“So, where are you letting me off?”

“Somewhere inconspicuous.”

“So the front door of Ram’s is out.”

Liam glares at Harry, though not completely with venom. "You're intolerable."

"You're too kind," he chuckles. "But what exactly am I looking for? You're meeting Tommo in a few days anyway."

“I’m curious about them. They're making a name for themselves, climbing the ranks. I think it wise to keep an eye on their progress.” An afterthought, almost to himself, he murmurs, “That brummie’s one of the most infuriating men I’ve ever met.”

“Okay... I’m still not seeing the big picture here,” Harry says slightly frustrated, staring at the side of Liam’s face and hoping his steadfast watch will prompt some sort of response. “Come on, mate, give me something.”

Liam remains quiet and Harry refrains from groaning irritably. Liam isn’t usually this unforthcoming and, as stoic as he pretends to be, Harry knows he can be surprisingly soft and may need to tread light, try a different tack, so he says quietly, “I won’t say anything to them,” meaning Geoff and Gemma.

As much as Liam trusts him, Harry tends to be trigger happy, jumping to conclusions before getting the whole story and acting impulsively much earlier than Liam would like. He's learned it's in the best interest of the Grozny, therefore ultimately Harry, to find his own conclusion before Harry can find his, as well, and right now Liam hasn't decided what to do about Tommo and the Bronzers so Harry would need to stay in the dark.

“You know all you need to know.” Liam stops the motor, head faced forward somewhat guiltily and not looking at Harry. “Here’s where I see you out,” he dismisses.

Birmingham might as well have been static purgatory, a simmering heat from underground that boiled up like hell itself though not remotely close to heaven, no chance at all. Factories labored long hours stained in soot and sweat, the clang and the clamor echoing inside and escaping out, banging and grating along the surface.

Before taking his leave, Harry leans on the open ledge of the door and studies Liam’s impassive face. “Don’t think I’ll forget your bad manners anytime soon,” then considers, “or forgive.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Rude.”

With a cavalier smirk, Harry remarks, “Impudent,” and Liam drives off.

Towers of thick smoke veiled clear skies and mutilated pure clouds, destroying the already slim hopes of sun. The city’s bleak atmosphere and harsh cacophony cloaked and droned out the raw violence of illegal activities and restless dangers, from which a particular kind of criminal emerged in charge.

What more could he possibly learn about the Bronzers that they don’t already know? Drug peddling; the gambling; the sex work: Bronzers are known for all three and rough around the edges. This little snoop seems pointless to him, so Liam’s probably up to something. And it’s probably going to fuck up everything.

The dark fog blanketing the streets consumes the fresh smoke of Harry’s cigarette before he can even take his first hit. He can’t help but notice how poor everything looks.

Dilapidated buildings, bedding and men’s work shirts hanging from clothing lines that stretched between windows of the shantytown. Mud puddles from the constant rain. Children with dirt smudged faces running everywhere. Boxes of what he assumed are various paraphernalia. A random white horse.

Flames from the warehouses. Smoke everywhere. He can barely see.

Rotten food, rubbish, and piss permeated the air. Harry’s nose twitches in disgust from the awful aromas. _How can anyone live like this_?

There’s a line of small brick buildings on Adderley Road, people crowding around them and a few heads peer out from open windows. A woman is sweeping by the entrance of a shop. A man is arranging newspapers on a stand. They’re going about their days, working, preparing, moving. Birmingham is alive with purpose.

London is never this active. Most of the time it’s as if it has no pulse. Or perhaps it’s only the people. Londoners trudge through their days, listless, tired from nothing, whereas the people of Birmingham go about their days, hardworking, their exhaustion justified.

A noisy pub comes into view.

 _The Roving Ramblers_.

So this is the infamous Ram’s. He assumed it was named after the animal, much like the Grozny’s Lion’s.

Harry pulls down his cap further and walks to the pub. As he’s reaching for the door knob it bangs open and Harry has to step aside to let the patrons to amble out in a drunken stupor.

It’s only half past.

The men amble away not even noticing Harry. It’s as if he’s a ghost, not even there at all. Which is a good thing considering why he’s there in the first place.

He enters the pub and his eyes scan the place. A few people look over and the barback looks up and says “Mornin’ mate.”

Harry nods at his greeting. He takes his time approaching the bar to place an order. The barback moves to another customer before Harry makes his way there. He silently drums his fingers on the bar, a somewhat steady rhythm. _What am I doing here_?

Harry scans the place again, checking to see if anyone recognizes him or finds him suspicious. Thankfully, Liam told him to dress simply before they made the drive to Birmingham, his normal attire being exceedingly fancy for a place like this. He had removed his ring, as well. Definitely didn’t need to advertise that he’s the enemy.

Harry turns his head back and makes eye contact with the barback.

“Whiskey. Rocks.”

The barback nods and tends to Harry’s order. He places the glass on the countertop while Harry fishes out what’s owed and the barback makes change.

“Haven’t seen your mug around these parts before. You passing through?”

“Something like that.” Harry needs to come up with a lie fast. He takes a sip of his drink. “Visiting my aunt.”

“Oh, what’s her name? Might know her.”

“Lizzie Bor- Bordington.”

“Bordington? Never heard of ‘em.”

“She’s not much for socializing.”

The barback hums, but decides not to inquire further.

Harry internally sighs, wishing Liam didn’t ask him to do this. He could be drinking with Gemma talking about Matisse or _Death in Venice_ , instead of drinking alone in this shit hole.

He heads to a table not too far from the back, away from the door and the bar. He wishes he had something to occupy his hands with besides his whiskey. He wonders if there’s any newspapers left behind. A quick scan shows no such luck.

Harry decides to refrain from scoping out the place any further. He can’t look any more suspicious than he probably already seems. He senses the barback looking over in his direction every now and again. 

Harry finishes his drink, but not too quickly. He slowly leaves the pub, again not wanting to draw attention to himself. He’s disappointed he didn’t see any Bronzers hanging about.

Harry’s not looking forward to telling Liam he got zilch. Liam’s already in a mood and now that this excursion is a wash, he’ll be worse. 

_Liam needs to get laid_.

All of sudden a hidden door opens in the back and out spills Niall and Zayn along with a few other Bronzers. Shit. 

Harry quickly exits Rams and takes cover in the alley next to the pub. After a few minutes, Niall and Zayn exit, as well. Their conversation carries over to the alley.

“- with Louis. He’s acting strange.”

“Tell me about it. I tried getting him to confide in me but he wouldn’t budge.”

“He’s usually not this reticent. You think it has anything to do with his encounter with Liam?”

“I know it does. He thinks he’s being subtle in his refusals. Forgets I know him like the back of me hand.”

Harry doubles back, making an attempt at following them from the side rather than behind them. He senses that Niall is constantly alert and on his guard, a good quality of a gang member. A man, even.

Their voices fade.

Harry pats his coat for cigarettes and pulls out one and lights up. He sharply inhales, nerves frayed. He tugs his cap down yet again. 

Niall’s and Zayn’s voices pick up again.

“–comes from a good family. I wonder if it’s a good idea to drag her into this life.” Zayn smooths down his hair. “I wasn’t so involved before you lot asked me.”

“Zayn, you don’t have to be with us if it’s affecting your personal life. I won’t take offense if you decide to go.”

“No! No, that's not what I’m insinuating at all. I just wonder if she’ll want to stick with me...”

“Gigi’d be completely mad if she left you.”

“If you say so.”

Niall hums in assent to Zayn's prattle about some girl whose name Harry doesn’t recognize. Niall seems contemplative, somber. _Wonder what that’s about_.

Harry follows them a good deal, the trip appearing to take forever. Harry’s lit another cigarette in the meantime. So far he’s gathered that Louis is tight-lipped about anything regarding Liam and Zayn’s girl has a sister that Zayn might be trying to set up with Niall. Niall doesn’t seem to be responsive toward Zayn’s proposition.

“You know I’ve got a thing with the McMaar lass. I don’t need another bint constantly after me, checking up on me, acting jealous all the time.” 

Zayn chuckles. “I forgot about that. You don’t talk about her much.”

“I’m a gentleman.”

Zayn snorts. “Sure you are.”

Niall bumps into Zayn’s arm, almost teasingly. “C’mon mate. I’ve got bets to place and it’s brass monkeys out here.”

Zayn unwinds his scarf and wraps it around Niall’s neck. “Made it nice and warm for ya.”

“So generous.”

They speed up, a medium sized building not too far in distance.

“I hope Caroline hasn’t taken the books out yet. I don’t trust that Matty fellow who she hired not too long ago.”

“Trust no one, I says.”

“I hope you don’t include me when you say that.”

“Hmm. I dunno,” Niall teases.

“You prat.”

Harry is amused by their banter. He’s glad that this “covert operation” provided some sort of useful information. He needed to look more into this Matty character, see if he could persuade him to be an inside man.

Niall’s voice lowers in pitch, almost whispering to Zayn. Zayn discreetly turns his head around, seemingly looking for something. 

Harry thinks he’s been busted so he stops at a tomato stand, pretending to peruse the produce. He doesn’t think he’s fooling anyone, but it’s worth the try.

But Niall and Zayn don’t detain him. 

They enter what appears to be a motel, a sign in the window offering palm readings and a crude drawing to go along with it. Harry wonders whether it’s a front for solicitation.

A group of ladies are loitering close by the motel, chatting, smoking cigarettes, and upon a closer look, reading a periodical. One woman in particular catches Harry’s eye. She’s gorgeous. Almost reminds him of Gemma. But no one could hold a candle to Gemma. 

His perfusive staring draws her attention from the ladies’ conversation, his gaze a heated beacon, and she looks back at him and smiles. 

Harry smiles back, tips his cap, then approaches her. There’s a chance they’re in the Bronzer’s pockets, it’s worth a shot.

***

Motel Josh tells Niall about the young handsome man who dressed too fancy, talked too proper, and was taken in by one of the girls. He needed to get back on the good side of the Bronze Boys and the only way to do that was demonstrating his allegiance.

“Don’t tell Tommo,” Niall commands, Josh’s word being damn near worthless that he isn’t expecting much, if anything at all, and doesn’t need their Boss occupied about a false alarm while he’s putting out real fires.

Josh gulps, stutters, “Room-Room 4,” before scrambling back to his front desk.

Niall waits outside the line of doors, random yelps and groans seeping through the otherwise well-insulated walls. He hopes the girl is Louis’ sister Lottie, who’d be smart enough to realize the out-of-place fancy dress and proper talk, intelligent enough to pry without being obvious, and loyal enough to hold nothing back.

No luck, however, when room 4 opens and Lottie doesn’t emerge but Flack, a girl with shaky alliances and questionable intentions, who gasps when she sees him.

“I'll deal with ya later. Move it.” She sprints away and Harry walks out not long after in a wrinkle-free unbuttoned long sleeved shirt and black denim pants, suede boots adorning his large feet. “Ya lost, mate?”

Shutting the door with some force, he plays it cool. “Hello there. Niall, is it?” He tamps down the smirk that was playing at his lips to hide the humor that would usually alight in his eyes, the end result a grimace and cold stare. It’s his job to know who everyone is.

Niall sneers. He’s read enough papers to know exactly who this is: the Styles siblings are anything but subtle on London’s social scene. “Don’t be a ponce, Harry Styles. What’re you doing here?”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Harry’s green eyes flashed and Niall swore he saw gold flecks within. He found Harry stunningly appealing so, keeping on track, he presses impatiently, “Answer me,” removing his cap in further warning, “before I cut your face up.”

Harry knows about the hidden razor blades in the lining of each Bronzers’ cap. He slowly takes a couple steps back, hands raised, indicating he means no harm.

“Can’t a man make a trip and take in the sights of another town?”

Niall sneers again and says, “You’re a goddamn liar. Get the fuck outta here before I cut your face up.” 

_Idiot_. _Didn’t even bring a gun_.

Niall’s eyes narrow, searching for a weapon on Harry’s person. Confirming that Harry was clean, he abandons his initial intent.

“Why are you really here?”

Harry looks around, arms stretched. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Niall raises an eyebrow.

“Haven’t been to Birmingham before. Wanted to see the men’s singles. Maybe even take a gondola ride.” He shrugs. “But then I saw this _lovely_ motel and decided to rent a room. Was feeling a bit tired.”

They stare at one another, waiting to see who makes the first move.

“Right then.”

Harry turns to walk off but Niall prevents it, pulling at his shoulder roughly and shoving his back to the wall as he stumbles. Not in his prime, he doesn't resist, body recovering and mind refocusing from his earlier activities. He tucks dark locks behind his ear and mocks, “Slow day in the office, boyo?”

Niall bears his clenched teeth. “Styles.”

“You’re lucky it’s not Geoff or my sister that’s here,” then considers, “or maybe I’m the lucky one,” crowding Niall even more, chins bumping and the smell of peppermint hitting Niall’s nose. “Actually, you’re the lucky one. Luck of the Irish, mm?”

“So how was it?”

“How was what?”

“Are you a satisfied customer?”

Harry grins. “Very.”

“Good. Not get the fuck outta here.” Harry starts to walk off, but Niall’s voice stops him. “Too bad you set foot in Rams. You must’ve considered that our barback would report to us about any strange men coming in one of our establishments. You can’t be that daft.”

“You’re right. I did consider it.”

“So you admit you’re having a wee look around? You’re on enemy territory. Best be careful,” he warns, a jocular tone evident in his words.

“I’m not worried. Wasn’t here to pick a fight. I promise,” he says, placing his right hand over his heart, playful to the last.

Niall huffs out a laugh, “Are you leaving or do I need to escort you out?”

“Just about to call for a cab.”

Niall grabs Harry’s arm, pulling him in tight with a violent jerk. “I think I’ll take you back meself. Make sure you don’t lose your way.” 

Harry smirks. “Much obliged, _boyo_. You’re a good man,” he snarks. Niall pushes Harry forward, moving him toward his motorcar. He opens the passenger door and shoves him inside. “Easy there. I’m fragile.”

“Feck off.”

***

Niall is silent through most of the ride with Harry attempting to draw him into light conversation, hoping to glean any information from the Bronzer.

Niall is annoyed. Not only was Harry insufferable, but he can’t stop thinking about what Zayn confided in him about Gigi earlier. _Was he really considering proposing_?

He is so caught up in his thoughts, he doesn’t hear Harry’s question.

“Hello? Hello? Hello! Niall! Earth to Niall!” He waves his hand in front of Niall’s face.

“Oi! I’m driving here. You trying to kill us?”

“We’re fine. I trust you’re a capable driver.”

Niall looks at him as if to say, ‘No shit.’

“As I was saying, do you lads attend a lot of football matches? Haven’t been to one in a long time. Been a bit preoccupied.”

Niall decides it won’t hurt to briefly chat with him. Talking about the footie won’t reveal anything pertinent. 

“No, it’s been a while for me, too.”

“Yeah, I much prefer another sport, to be honest. Football’s not always life or death.”

“Oh, and what’s that?” Niall inquires, actually curious due to Harry’s words and tone.

Harry pauses, considers telling Niall about his proclivity for boxing.

“I like a good boxing match. The crowds are great, lots of excitement. And the betting always climbs to high numbers. Serious stuff.”

“Always thought about checking out a match or two. But I see enough of it in the streets.” Niall smiles. “I’ve definitely taken down my fair share of sloggers. Robbed ‘em blind.” He laughs, amusement bubbling up to the surface.

“You sicko,” Harry teases. Interest lighting up the green in his eyes. 

“Like you haven’t delighted in a good fight before.”

“True.”

Niall pulls up to Lion’s. Harry shakes his head in exasperation.

“And you scold me for visiting your turf. You’ve definitely been here before.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Niall says with a smirk. 

Harry exits the motor.

“See ya around, _mate_ ,” Harry says with a salute, sauntering off to the Grozny’s main pub.

Niall huffs a laugh. _Fuckin’ eegit_.

Niall watches him go inside, waits a minute then shakes his head, driving back home.


	3. schemes versus negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gangs meet with their own to discuss new developments and a possible union.

Louis hasn’t been able to get Liam out of his head since Eastleybury Manor. This newfound feeling was as annoying as it was invigorating, having not been this intrigued for some time.

He never thought of himself as particularly submissive, his regular dalliances with Niall and Zayn usually finding him in control as nothing more than a way to let off some steam. How Liam’s lips felt on his neck, though, sent a thrill through him that buzzed beneath his skin, a sheer delight from his head down to his curling toes.

Staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, hands clenching the sink in some form of agony, that action alone brought out an unrecognizable side of himself and angers him because Liam’s affect on him, going so far as to imagine Zayn’s mouth – gorgeous-fucking-Zayn – being Liam’s around his dick, doesn’t _make sense_.

He calls a meeting in Ram’s office, Niall next to him as whispers of a possible skirmish feeds the Boys’ hunger for a fight. 

He raises his hand, indicating an order of silence, and is pleasantly surprised at how quickly it was received. “Alright lads, some of you might’ve heard rumours about a run-in with a couple of Grozzo big timers,” the Boys answer in the affirmative – grunts, harrumphs, stoic nods – all with arms folded across their chests, “and some of you’ve been the source of said rumours.”

Suffice to say, Tommo does not like that at all. Not at all. He eyes Motel Josh and a couple others who slouch in guilt at the poker table; he’ll have them dealt with later. The rest, they want to know if what everyone was saying had an ounce of truth.

“Our boy Zayn got an invite from that Baron in London, Nialler and I weren’t expecting much,” Louis stalls, making his Boys wait for the dirt. “Indeed, I…ran into the bloody Grozzo Prince himself…”

Niall senses the restlessness in the room, agitated limbs getting a workout from swinging side-to-side – a sway and two-step – recognizing the antsy nature of squalid youth who were hardly educated and looking for a fight; he was like that once, every growing lad was.

“…which displeased him, naturally– but not as much as having one of his Grozzo’s precious rings,” Louis further explains, inhaling deeply to prepare for his next announcement. His wrist bumps Niall’s, the wide eyes and heavy silence of his Boys unsettling, and finds slight comfort when he taps back. “We’re strong, Boys, but we’re no match for them. I will avenge Paul, even if that means infiltrating the Grozzos from the inside–”

Protests erupt.

“Tommo, we can’t!”  
“Like hell, that’s out of order!”  
“We all know what happened last time Grozzo tossers came around.”  
“It’s not right.”  
“Or we could just kill ‘em.”

Motel Josh, always reliable to bring salt for Tommo’s wounds, speaks over the commotion. “No shit, ya thought they just gunned Paul in cold blood? That they were bored, had no predisposition?”

Paulie’s best mate and Tommo’s biggest critic, Josh is still bitter at how the _young nephew_ rose into the leadership position and _disgusted_ at how the Boys seemed hardly in opposition. He’d deny yearning for Paul’s vacancy, would recite a variation of “I trusted Paul with my life, I trust him in his death” that oozed faith in his decisions and true loyalty.

“You foolish child.”

Then again, his faith and loyalty was personal, not professional, so no good will transferred over from Paul to nephew. Niall pushes out his chest and steps up, ready to escalate aggression, but Louis’ grasp stops him. Foolish, a word too frequent to Louis’ ears as of late, first from Liam and now Josh, triggers his irritation. Paulie taught him to always have an open forum and to never let them forget who runs it. It seemed Josh had forgotten, Tommo would need to change that.

“Why would you even _consider_ attending…with _that hopper_ –”

“‘That hop’s an independent contractor, recruited by _Paulie_ , mind you,” the room hushed as quick as it had outburst, watching closely, “meaning _we_ , you too, will protect him–”

“He’s nothing more than your bedmate, for fuck’s sake, you’re risking the–”

Louis dives forward, connects a jab to Josh’s cheek, and Josh lunges with his whole body to spin him around in a successful charge, Louis’ waist lowering from the weight making an easy tackle. The Boys shove chairs and the table to give space for the fight and for them to circle around, cheers and shouts ringing static in overall commotion to Louis’ ears.

Niall catches Greg’s gaze, knowing he’s at the ready to break it up as he’d always done. It was only a matter of time until their brewing power struggle came to blows and, despite the size disadvantage for Louis, hashing it out is something they both needed to release. He turns his cheek, shaking his head subtly.

Josh’s wider frame heavy on top of him and punches striking his face, Louis takes the hits and instead focuses his strength on rolling over, upper body exhausted from the constant beating but lower half undamaged. There’s no way he’d win from the bottom, too short and comparably lightweight, so emptying the tank in such a position would be unwise. He wriggles his legs and wrestles Josh’s torso until, for one second, he sways off-balance, taking advantage by locking their ankles and gripping his biceps. He transfers weight from his core to his arms and knees, flipping and slamming Josh on his back with a hard blow to his head.

Josh grunts from the impact, Louis trapping one wrist and his other hand striking anywhere he could – chin, nose, temple, neck, shoulder – by generating all the force that his abdomen could muster. Blood sprays in the air onto their shirts and arms, a few drops landing on Louis’ face before he suddenly, too soon if he’d been asked, is being pulled off and up.

He sees blurs of movement instead of faces and swirls of colors instead of bodies, subconsciously swaying and nearly teetering if not for Niall's arm.

Josh’s tongue presses the inside of his bruised cheek, scolding as Greg leads him out, “If ya got us in a fucking mess, kid, I swear on Paul’s grave, Tommo, I will kill you.”

Niall sits Louis down on the desk then spins around. “Oi!” Greg freezes in the doorway, Josh firmly under his arm and Rory right behind him in a failed sneakout attempt. “I’ll make you regret one more step, mick.”

As Rory sheepishly returns among the Boys, head bowed, Niall squeezes Louis’ shoulder and softly asks if he’s okay. Nodding, Louis straightens his spine and toughens through the instant, dizzy nausea. “Listen up, Boys,” he’d be damned to not finish this meeting, “cuz I ain’t gonna repeat myself and give no shits what ya fuckin’ opinion is.”

He pauses, the Boys thinking it was to build anticipation like before, as vomit creeps up his throat that he needed to swallow back hard. He might have a concussion.

“We gotta have each other’s backs, lads. To the end of the slums– _our_ slums. If we’re gonna keep them out of enemy hands,” he points at Rory while scanning the room, his words meant widespread, “y’all best recheck ya loyalties and efforts because you sure as hell don’t want me doin’ it for ya.”

Niall fixes Louis up at previously-Paul’s-now-his house, a safezone on a premier lane in a quiet residential sector to hide and do work without worrying about being found or killed in his sleep. Niall and Zayn had rooms of their own, though most nights found either in Louis’ boudoir. Not at the same time, unfortunately. Niall was too much of chicken shit when it came to Zayn, never acting on his attraction but Louis knows Niall too well to not see the truth. 

Stained clothes discarded on the bathroom floor, Niall cleans the corner of his mouth and has him press facial tissue on the almost-done bleeding, his afar gaze slowly coming back from haze to focus. “What do we do?”

Brows creasing, Niall crouches to dab disinfectant on Louis’ knee, washcloth fibers snagging the tender skin shreds and causing Louis to bite his thumb as he muffles a whine. “What do we do?” Niall repeats, grabbing a plaster from the pile on the sink and carefully taping it with adhesive.

“The Boys run wild, Josh publicly denounced me… This wouldn’t be a problem under Paul.” Niall frowns, moving Louis’ hand to check on the cut then placing it back. “We aren’t a match for the Grozzos… We might have no choice in our fate.”

Niall dips the cloth in more rubbing alcohol and takes Louis’ free hand with his own, “That’s the catch with fate, innit,” patting his knuckles more gently after the reaction to his knee. “Our expected destiny isn’t necessarily our fate.”

After wrapping a bandage around his hand, Niall traces the bruises and tattoos scattered across his tan chest. “Ya sure everythin’s good?”

“Yes, Nialler, I am. Although,” Louis stands up, wincing at the soreness, “could use a smoke.”

Heading to the living room, a note on the couch informed them that Zayn would be making his rounds with Gigi for a week or two. He hadn’t left in a couple months so it was to be expected. He reported to no one, responsible for only himself and himself alone, but Niall didn’t particularly approve of his up-and-out departures. He’d come to care about him, Niall had, quite a bit if he’s honest, worried about his safety as a result of his job or affiliations. Each time he was gone, Niall feared he wouldn’t return.

Reclined against the armrest and stretched legs over his lap, Louis lights a pipe and first offers it to Niall, who shakes his head as he stares at the note in his hands. “He’ll be fine, love,” Louis assures while inhaling, face cringing at the harsh initial burn, then exhales, “always is.”

Niall sighs, dropping the page to the floor. It wasn’t just the unplanned departures and safety concerns, it was also (mainly) Gigi. Her control over him, she beckons and he crawls. Her accompanying him, he leads and she shadows. Her allure, she exists and men, including Zayn, fall. She was seemingly the most important person in his life and it devastated Niall because he didn’t trust her…and he was in love with him.

“What do you think?” interrupts Niall’s reeling mind a few drinks later, Louis slouching lower on the couch than where he started. “What do we do?”

“Instinct is, keep to what we know, stay who we are,” Niall grinds his teeth, “but, if we can’t stand against them, might as well make it as painless as possible.”

Arm hanging over the side, pipe in his limp palm, Louis whispers, “The Boys’ll never go for it,” exposing his well-hidden insecurity. Niall saw him through the darkness after Paul, at one of his worst times. He didn’t have to act around him.

“Doesn’t matter.” Louis rolls his neck to face Niall. “Ya the fookin’ boss, Tommo. They’ll go for it.” He leans forward to get a good look at Louis and huffs a laugh. “Gonna have a right shiner, you are,” and Louis nods while inhaling another hit, squeaking out, “Can feel it. Shit really hurts.”

***

Gemma is sat at her illuminated vanity and smoothes cold cream to her décolletage when Harry enters her bedroom. Their long-standing weekly evening tête-à-têtes include whiskey rocks, insignificant banter along with some business talk, and endless teasing. Too much endless teasing.

Harry pours two fingers for her and sets the bottle down on her vanity, pulling out a wooden chair next to her cushy one. “And how is my dear sister this evening?”

“I’m well, sweet brother, and you’re the same I take it?”

“You know me like the back of your soft hands.”

“Well-manicured, soft hands.”

Harry snorts at her response. Gemma smiles fondly. Harry couldn’t help but return her smile. Although his was more goofy - pure Duchenne.

“So,” she drags her fingers across the table, tapping the bottle of whiskey that is between their glasses, “what’s on the up and up for this week?”

“I may have set foot on Bronzer soil.”

“Whatever for?”

“Liam’s orders. He claims they’re up to something and wants to have the advantage, but…” Harry trails off.

“But?” Gemma prompts.

“But. I don’t completely believe him.”

“What do you think he’s hiding?”

“You should’ve seen him, Gem. After his brush with Louis at the Baron’s. He was unsettled. I’ve never seen him like that before. Never.”

“Unsettled how?”

Harry smirks. “Come now, Gemma. Don’t act so coy.”

“Well, be that as it may,” she pauses. _Of all people, Liam was the last one she expected to sleep with the enemy_. “Liam does have a point regarding keeping tabs on the Bronze Boys.”

“I suppose. Never hurts to know your enemy.”

Gemma muses on the statement. “I do wonder how Louis has been handling the Bronze Boys ever since his uncle was murdered. Whoever was foolish enough to off that man put a glaring target on his back,” she takes a gulp of her drink, “and now the Bronze Boys are mucking up our affairs, making runs on our land. Honestly, it’s been bothering my Jimmy’s empire.”

“Oh poor Jimmy,” Harry mocks. “I’ve heard all of this before, Gem. Still doesn’t change the fact Tommo’s out for blood.”

“If memory serves correctly, you’re a bit bloodthirsty, as well.” She ruffles the hair on his head, thinking only of the rare fist fight he or Liam have to dispense on their enemies. Truthfully, a beat down from the Grozny is a mercy compared to more deadly alternatives.

 _Only in the ring_ , he thinks.

Harry’s interest in boxing was influenced as an adolescent by his late father and their excursions to a military training facility, a lesson in how hard work pays off in the end. The boxing matches he participated in were as covert as they could get, the club all for discretion amongst its attendees in everyday society, although the men brawled and left with rather cut-up and bruised mugs, broken knuckles and noses.

Regardless of his brutish activities, he is a gentleman, suit always crisp and clean, looking sharp as ever with his hair combed back and not wild when he was up against some Cockney bloke in an abandoned warehouse.

He uselessly argues, “Am not.”

“Tell that to all the boys who chased my skirt in school.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and swallows the rest of his drink. Harry cares deeply for Gemma and no man is good enough. If a man ever even **_thought_** of breaking her heart, that fool would feel the harsh burst of fury as Harry’s fists fly at the man’s face and pummel his torso, kicking him to the ground effectively leaving him bloodied and bound for death.

“I heard that your little darling mistress has been catching the eye of assorted men at those soirees you attend. I can’t believe any man would be daft enough to chat up Harry Styles’ side-piece when said man’s deranged jealousy is infamous amongst the upper class criminals.” Gemma takes a prime sip of her drink, now cradling the glass in her hands. “Are you going to marry that girl? Do tell.”

Harry huffs out an annoyed breath, making a face when he poured himself another drink.

She further prods. “You _do_ plan on proposing though, right?” 

“I honestly have no idea. Maybe I’ll be feeling romantic and ask for her lovely hand on a balcony in Paris after a well-prepared meal of canard á l’Orange, or I could be blinding drunk in a sleazy speak thinking I’m romantic by reciting ‘She Walks in Beauty’ like I’m this Byronic hero and make an ass of myself. She’s a great girl, truly.”

“But?”

“But? There’s no but.”

Gemma gives a small knowing smile and takes another sip of her drink. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

“Alright. Tell me, what’s this girl’s name again? I seem to have trouble remembering it at this moment.” 

“Like you really want to know.”

Gemma looks at Harry then the ground, as if she couldn't believe his sass, and sighs heavily. “Hazza, you know I care for you, like a sister–“

He suspects Gemma knows about his affections that crossed familial boundaries. There are moments when her eyes would get this gimlet look or her lips would curl up to one side, as if let in on his most precious secret to use for her advantage. Oh, she was a smart one all right, knew her womanly wiles have taken her far and could take her even farther. Harry saw that she was beautiful but also knew her so well…too well, in fact.

Men easily fell in love with Gemma and she loves the attention – how those very men become obsessed with every part of her being. She had that _je ne sais quoi_ and Harry has it, too, of course, but not nearly on her level. She is a goddess to many, untouchable and unattainable, but to Harry she is everything.

Harry interrupts her eventual diatribe regarding his immoral feelings. “Gemma, Gemma, Gemma. Don’t worry about me. I will marry her in my own time. Soon enough. I’m acting like any man my age. The bachelor life is too alluring and hard to give up,” he says with conviction.

“I’m fairly certain Jimmy is going to ask me to marry him.”

She’s looking at him for a reaction, the kind of reaction she knows she’ll get.

“God, Gemma, you can do so much better than him. He’s absolute rubbish. He’s not worthy of you whatsoever.” He looks at her with puppy dog eyes. “Leave him for me, will ya?”

Gemma laughs. “You muppet. Jimmy adores me. And I like what he provides for me.”

“I can provide for you. I _do_ provide for you.”

“Of that, there’s no doubt.” She takes a sip of her drink and continues. “What I meant was, I have him wrapped around my little finger and because of that I can get what I want and do whatever I want. Jimmy is feared. He has power.”

“I still don’t understand why you bother with him when the Grozny have all those things and more. You don’t need him.”

“I know. But he needs me. And you can’t deny that he has access and reach to places even the Grozny aren’t privy to. Liam can be brutal, but his class and pedigree always win out in the end. He knows how to control himself.” She pauses, lips twitching with humour as an amused glint sparks in her eyes. “The same can’t be said for Jimmy.”

“He’s a dog.”

“And he only comes to heel with me.” 

A satisfied smirk blooms on Gemma’s face. She finishes her drink and sets the glass down on her vanity. 

Harry shifts his weight from one leg to the either, ice clinking in his glass from the movement. “It’s actually frightening how well Liam holds himself together.” He drinks from his glass, savoring the whiskey. “You have to wonder how he came to that point.”

Gemma’s face closes off a little, the skin around her around her eyes pinched. “He’s under a great deal of pressure. His father expects perfection from him.” 

“Doesn’t mean he needs to close himself off completely. I’ve never seen someone adverse to affection.”

“How would you know he doesn’t show affection?” She giggles. “Not like you’ve ever bedded the man.”

Harry smiles at her delight. “You don’t have to be affectionate with only those you sleep with.” 

He gives her a knowing look. She turns her head to avoid his gaze, picking up her discarded glass and sipping air, as she already finished her drink. 

Harry checks his pocket watch then downs the rest of his whiskey. He pours another.

“One more for the road.”

“I’m guessing it’s time to go.”

Harry picks up Gemma’s fur coat as she rises from her chair. He places it across her shoulders and assists her with putting her arms in the sleeves. 

“Time to get back to work.”

***

Grozny meetings were held at the banquet hall of their racetrack, most seated at the draped tables and the rest stood off to the side. Liam and the Styles siblings positioned themselves near the back, Gemma on the opposite side of the hall from the two men. She can handle herself, doesn’t need any (particularly male) savior, and separates herself as a reminder to each Grozny of her independent power: she can stand alone just fine.

“I would like to announce that those Bronze Boys have officially challenged the Grozny,” Geoff declares. “Not only did Tommo appear at Cowell’s last weekend but his second, Horan, was seen on the front door of Lion’s. Now, do any of you know anything about that?”

Harry shifts his weight from one leg to the other and looks across the room at Gemma, who’s smirking at him knowingly with arched eyebrows. Ever so slightly, he narrows his eyes almost as a dare for her to tattle. She never would, never has, but posing the predictably useless challenge gave him a sense of power (as the younger sibling, anyway).

The room remains silent, Liam's face stoic as ever despite noticing Gemma looking behind him at her brother, and Geoff continues. “The action we take has yet to be decided but mark my words, you Grozny will be taking action.” His unforgiving gaze scans the room. “For now, if you see a dirty Bronzer Brum around here, detain them and you bring them straight to Liam.”

Gemma runs the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip without losing her smirk, amused at how Harry's expression vanished completely as he watched her. Not one ounce of her attention remains on the meeting. She would take Harry's mesmerized green gaze and flustered appearance over a Grozny gathering every time.

From the back of the room, Liam’s close companion Olly speaks up. “What if we make an accord with them?”

“What’re you implying?” Geoff growls deeply, sending goosebumps down Olly's forearms.

“I know nothing about Horan," he clarifies nervously, " I swear.”

“That’s probably not a good idea,” says Liam flatly, arms folded in annoyance at Olly's nativity. “Besides, they think we gunned down Paul Tomlinson.”

From the center table of the first row, Anne cuts in strongly, “That’s not true!”

The Styles siblings instantly snap their necks to look at their mother, previous exchange extinguished and forgotten.

“No,” Geoff confirms, “we never had notions of that sort. He and I had rare exchanges, perhaps I should send our condolences…”

Liam argues, “That would get them bent out of shape over it even more," and Harry nods in agreement. "I don’t think anything at this point would convince them that we weren’t behind his murder."

Anne cries out, “The thought of the Grozny killing Paul…it’s outrageous!” Lost in her own mind so immensely, her surroundings and consciousness failed briefly to exist.

“Anne, dear, if this talk is too much for you," Geoff takes a step toward her, stern yet patient, "please remove yourself. Have a rest in my library.”

Harry quickly volunteers, “I’ll take her, sir,” and rushes to his mother's side, taking her hand into his own and helping her up.

Gemma moves just as fast and holds Anne’s other hand. “Harry, I’ll take care of her," she objects with the same smirk. "I insist.”

Harry and Gemma look into each other’s eyes as if to see who will cave first, Anne staring far off between them. Liam clears his throat after about ten seconds, breaking their concentration. Claiming dominance and victory on her brother, Gemma gently threads her arm through the crook of Anne’s own and addresses the room. “Clearly the Bronzers have sight on London, if the Baron’s soiree is any indication. We need to make the first move, whatever we may decide it to be.”

She guides her mother towards the door, leaving behind a sour Harry, and adds as they're about to leave, "We’ll talk more once I get her settled, Geoff."

Geoff gives her a nod and shifts his attention to his son. “How is it you have such knowledge of the happenings up in Birmingham?”

“It's my duty to know," he casually replies. "I took it upon myself to have Harry scope out their territory.” Geoff makes as if to interrupt. “Let me finish. I truly think it behooves us to have knowledge of how they operate...”

Geoff carefully studies his son's face. “Just now, you informed us that they swore vengeance.”

“I received information that one of their main members had done the same,” Liam justifies, unnerved by his father's intense gaze underneath his robust disguise. “It’s only fair play.”

Geoff appraises Liam strenuously. “I trust your judgment… that you know what you’re doing.” 

Liam releases a long exhale through his nose, composed on the outside but calming from panic on the inside. He legitimately could have been a dead man if his father interrogated him further, getting caught fraternizing with the enemy so to speak. The Grozny are a smart community that had the ability to sniff him out like dogs.

“Might I have a say?” comes the thin steely voice of Jimmy, who hadn't so much as blinked when Gemma escorted her mother past him.

Harry pats Liam's lower back, a signal he wasn't alone and would be fine.

“You have the floor,” Geoff approves with a hesitant air, turning away from his son.

“Why is it that we need to concern ourselves at all regarding the Bronze Boys? They’re from Cheapside. We don't need to associate with that garbage.”

Before Geoff could respond, Liam raises his hand, hoping to overpass the previous exchange. "May I?"

Glare still strong, Geoff nods and Liam addresses the man.

"You're right, we don't. We Grozny are tough– able to succeed, willing to kill the kings of London. We _are_ London. But London is in motion and that's why our expansion is moving with it.”

Liam slowly walks towards the front and his father, body angled to the room.

“London is changing, England is changing. We must make certain that no one gets in our way. Even the lowest of the low.” 

Jimmy rises from his chair. “I didn't ask for a news bulletin, Payno–”

“But you did,” Liam degrades, standing beside his father, “no matter what kind of class of criminal, it’s best not to underestimate any one of them.”

“Look, the Bronze Boys will either take up with us or remain our enemy, and Birmingham is an asset waiting to be claimed. Why not make an attempt to extend our hand? The way I see it, me and Haz, if we play our cards right, we could good, uh, report with one of the Boys. Wouldn’t you rather we stay at the top and get more on the way?”

“Since when do you think we need more men?” Jimmy heckles further, increasing the aggravation and irritation of Liam. “Brummies don’t have too much in way of strategy, do they? They crash and go.”

Harry sighs loudly. “But they've got a hell of a lot of heart, which is more than I can say for you, _James_.”

“Oh bugger this," Jimmy continues, head shaking as he looks around at everyone. "When did we go all soft, ey? What’s with everyone?”

“Nobody’s gone soft," Liam condescendingly defends. "We’re planning. Haz and I have sorted it out– we need to make use of the Bronze Boys’ location, status, and loyalty.”

Liam gives Jimmy a pointed look, effectively ending the conversation. 

The Grozny starts talking amongst themselves; some nodding, some frowning, some skeptical. 

Liam observes them conversing and leans to whisper in his father's ear, “I would like to discuss this matter in private… After the Delgado fiasco, I worry he may have planted moles.”

“You truly believe it beneficial to make friends with the Bronze Boys? You did say they have a target on our backs. They will probably take our proposal as a ploy to further undermine their operation.”

“That’s always a possibility. But I believe that Harry and I could sway them.”

“You’re so sure of yourself.” Geoff seems impressed. “I believe I like this new side of you, my dear boy. Tell me, what is it that you and Harry have in mind?” 

“Don’t you think we should include Gemma in that conversation?” 

“Of course, she will have valuable input to add, I’m sure.”

Harry pipes in, stepping forward, “I’ll fetch her,” and Geoff consents with a lift of his chin, strolling over to where Jimmy was moping in the corner.

Liam grabs Harry by the wrist, bringing him closer. “I must have a quick review with Gemma and then tend to another matter.” He checks his watch then verified, "Your place around eleven?”

Liam nods, a neutral expression on his face, not wanting to show any more emotion when it came to the Bronzers. To Louis.

Harry hurries out, gaining the glimpses of select members as he passed, towards the nearby managerial quarters. He taps on the door before entering to find his mum stretched out on the divan and holding a cold flannel over her eyes, Gemma pouring a generous amount of the water pitcher into a goblet. “Sudden case of the vapors, mum?”

“Oh, Harry, shush. I think I had one too many sherries.” Upon hearing the splash, Anne blindly pushes the glass away. “Sweetheart, let me rest a bit. I'm fine.”

Gemma looks worriedly at her pale mother, trembling fingers exposed by the rejected beverage.

Harry coughs. “Gem, a word?”

When her eyes flicker up to scan his weary face, he sees tears brimming and his feet move on their own accord. He sets the water down and brushes his hands over her shoulders, grazing down her arms and around her thin wrists.

He directs them out to the hallway and shuts the door quietly. “Mum’s not the only one who requires rest.”

“I’ll be alright, Haz,” Gemma chides and leans away from his grasp though not much. “There’s something going on you’re not telling me.”

“…I don’t know what you mean.” 

She steps back into his space and he loses focus for a second before zeroing in on her movements, her hand tenderly pressed against his cheek as she looks in both of his eyes one at a time. Eyes meet eyes. 

“Harry.”

“Gemma.”

She huffs forcefully, arms dropping to fold between them. “Whatever you’re not telling me is, likely, down to you thinking you’re protecting me– which if that’s the case, I’ll give you a slap right this instant.”

“It’s complicated, love.”

“Naturally,” she impassively comments and cocks her head. “Tell me, Haz. Are you aware of the reason why Horan was in, of all places, Southwark?”

He chooses his words thoughtfully. “I…may have had contact with him by random chance.”

“How close of contact?”

Harry’s eyes light up with amusement, his lips quirking up to one side. “Oh, Gemma, nothing too sordid to worry your pretty head over.” 

Her hands fall to her hips, face giving Harry the look that all women eventually give men – one that’s stern yet flabbergasted, the eyes focused in and staring them down as if meaning a multitude of things at once; a look centered around the complete and total acceptance of men being a lesser species indeed. 

“Hmm.” Steady fingers flatten the lapel on her brother's blazer then straighten out his tie. “Well, whatever shenanigans you lot get up to, I’ve got to make sure my baby looks sharp.”

“I’m not a baby,” Harry grumbles petulantly. 

“I know,” Gemma responds as she caresses the side of his jaw. 

He takes hold of both her hands and places them on the back of his neck, pulling her to his chest and in an embrace once her arms wrapped around him. It’d been a long day and he needs to feel close to her, so they stay in that prolonged moment – time still, frozen, unmoving. Nothing could break this fusionnel.

On the other end of the track lobby, Liam explains a special assignment to Olly between nonverbal farewells addressed to departing members who walked by. “I need you to watch where Jimmy goes late morning and the time he returns home for the night.”

Olly's eyes quickly dart over Liam’s shoulder then back. “Yes, sir.”

“On weekends, note where he's at in the afternoon and before he heads home instead. Do not get caught, do not be seen. Understand?”

“What of the alibi?” Olly asks, referring to if Jimmy _did_ in fact catch and see him spying.

Tongue clicking in thought, Liam decides, “Rumours of some sort of retaliation…targeting him. His reaction will be weighing, I'm certain.”

“Yes, sir.” Olly wrinkles his nose and says in a hushed volume, “Christ, those two are bloody odd. One temptation from the sins of hell and the incestuous nab of the century, they are.”

Liam glanced behind him at the Styles’, then turned back to Olly and pulled the front of his shirt with a tight grip. He brought their faces close and hissed, “Watch your tongue, Murs, before I rip it out. Get your respect in place because you _don't_ want me doing it for you. You hear me?”

Eyes wide and swallowing hard, Olly croaked, “Ye-Yes, sir.”

“Don't repeat a word or, I promise, you will regret it.” Liam pushed him backwards, causing him to stumble. “Get out of my sight.”

Olly scrambles away and Liam inhales slowly, watching the two siblings.

Harry’s eyes close in supplication, sighing and letting himself have this moment, and when they open, Gemma is studying him.

He loosens his hold on her waist. “I’ll tend to mum.” He squeezes her delicate curves. “Meet at mine in an hour but first, Geoff wants to speak with you.”

She kisses his cheek, whispering on his skin, “You’ve grown into a fine man, Harry.”

He watches his sister strut away effortlessly and half-curtsy for Liam as their paths crossed, the warmth from her body evaporating instantly. He nods at the door once Liam approaches and follows him inside to Anne.

Gemma walks back into the hall and eyes the small remainder of stragglers lined around the fringes, all looking as if they were to exit soon except for two: Geoff and her beau, Jimmy. She slows her pace and observes their interaction between passing acknowledgments and sendoffs. Bred for elegance and groomed for etiquette, it was common to see her making the small talk she secretly dreaded unless she felt troubled.

From what she can tell, Jimmy is rather annoyed at whatever Geoff is saying to him, chest inflated and neck veins bulging, and stands his ground even as Geoff grabs his shoulder to steer him toward the door.

Apparently, he thought what he had to say was important. “You should consider what I’m saying, Geoff.”

Geoff refrains from groaning, instead extending his inhale deeply. “I hear you, I do, and your input will be taken into consideration.”

Gemma approaches and coughs, Geoff looking over as if she was his saving grace and Jimmy as if she was intruding. “Gentlemen,” she greets, head bowing at Geoff.

“Gemma. Wonderful.” Geoff claps his hands together, Gemma unable (and not wanting) to conceal her amusement at his relief and obvious disdain. “Now we can continue what was discussed during the meeting. And the lower East End venture, as well.”

Eyes twinkling fondly at the man, she grins in affirmation before altering her expression to exasperation for Jimmy, who stands there looking between the two of them. “If you'll excuse us, my dear James.”

Jimmy doesn't move right away and Gemma lays her on his arm, stretching up on her toes to place a kiss near his lips, hoping the action will calm him down. He grunts and pulls away from her, stomping off like a churlish arse.

Geoff smiles at Gemma, her presence softening. “Shall we?”

Side by side, they trek through the grandstand to the upper tier where his massive suite overlooked the track. The private area catered to all levels of business and entertainment, divided into a foyer, dining lounge with attached outdoor seating balcony, and office chambers.

He unlocks the office and she refastens the deadbolt behind her, gazing through the window wall at the empty and beautifully preserved racecourse below.

“I’ll never understand why you put up with that fool.” Geoff holds two wide glasses between curled fingers and a bottle of scotch in his other hand, walking from the drink cart to Gemma. “Especially with his constant and flagrant disrespect to you.” 

“He has apologized for that incident with the bank,” she reminds him, taking a short tumbler, “and that was well before we were together.”

He grunts and pours Macallan for her then himself, placing the tall thin bottle on his desk. “I’d hardly call a botched robbery an incident.” He takes a sip. “And unnecessary injury to one of my men, as well.”

Gemma sighs. The men in her life never seem to reserve their judgments of her and her choices even though she was clearly the most level headed of the Grozny. Geoff certainly had his moments of hot headedness. He may be admonitory about the _incident _, but when it happened he flew off the handle. She supposed he had every right to. But executing all of Jimmy’s cronies was quite the overaction in her opinion.__

__The Payne men tended to have a shoot first, ask questions later mindset. She shakes her head from her musings as Geoff was saying something and she needs to stay focused. The possible merger with the Bronze Boys is now priority number one._ _

__“At least your brother has some sense when it comes to his own affairs.”_ _

__She sneers, a dark tone coloring her response, “Just not mine, it seems.”_ _

__“You’re not the only one who he vets romantic partners for.”_ _

__“Ah, yes. Mummy’s second husband.”_ _

__“An imbecile, to put it succinctly.”_ _

__“Harry was just mad he came on to me,” she chuckles somewhat wickedly and takes her first sip. “And for the record Geoff, I never claimed to like that man…or even wholly approve of his marriage to mummy. Thankfully that ended in divorce.”_ _

__She pauses in thought and to drink abundantly. “To be honest, I didn’t think their affair would lead to connubiality.” Laughing quietly, she recalls, “She was hardly around, only doing the books and then jetting off wherever it was she went. She seemed distracted, like she had business elsewhere… but he did bring with him prospective connections, at least in the beginning.”_ _

__“Yes, what exactly have the Yorkies been up to these days?” he asks, having forgotten about the insignificant impact of Anne’s old paramour's miniscule contribution. “Ever since that loading dock chaos, I haven’t seen or even heard much of his band of misfits.”_ _

__Over the rim of her glass, she coyly reports, “Harry seems to think they’ve shot their own foot, from what he's overheard from sources.”_ _

__“I foolishly considered giving him a ring,” Gemma’s demeanor becomes visibly full of revulsion, “but his conceited attitude and misogynistic behavior was most loathsome.”_ _

__“I vaguely remember his attempts at humour,” she agrees dryly and holds her empty lowball out for a refill._ _

__He obliges, adding, “His jokes are always in such poor taste.”_ _

__“Always.” A long gulp helps settle her rising temper. “Anyway, Liam and Harry are currently busy but wish to see us soon. Frankly, from the way Liam was acting, I think they’ve met with the Bronze Boys multiple times.”_ _

__Geoff’s reply in mutual knowledge barely surprises her. “Yes… I do, too.”_ _

__“They think they’re so sneaky,” she jests though the amusement was not returned._ _

__“My son is a strong and true man,” he sighs and tops off his drink, “but sometimes I think his big ideas get ahead of him and he forgets to keep things close to the vest.”_ _

__She pointedly counters, “At least around his father.”_ _

__“True.” He flashes a smile, taking her comment with reflection. “I haven’t heard murmurings of their involvement from other sources… I suppose he’s treading carefully with this. That must mean he finally realizes the importance of discretion– He used to be extremely brash, remember?”_ _

__“He’s matured, Geoff,” she praises matter-of-factly._ _

__He raises his glass. “And so has young Harry.”_ _

__“Yes, mummy and I are very proud of him.” She turns away on instinct to hide any facial cues that may have been telling and confesses quietly, “Although I wonder where he’s getting these cuts and bruises from, you've seen them. They’re not from street fights, of that I am positive.”_ _

__“I have no answer to what you seek, my dear,” he admits sadly, knowing she wants an explanation from him, “but perhaps we should delve deeper into this partnership with the Bronze Boys.”_ _

__Grateful for him bringing them back to business, she questions, “Do you really think we need a Midland alliance, more numbers?”_ _

__She had a habit of hiding physical emotion that may reveal worry, particularly in the presence of or in regards to her brother, and derailing if it lingered. Geoff learned this very early in their relationship and discovered moving immediately from the causing topic kept her sanity sharp._ _

__“Well, as mentioned earlier, we seem to have misplaced previous connections so we,” he looks deliberately at her, “must talk to Anne about that.”_ _

__He ponders her question. “As for Birmingham, the outcome of our plan is unpredictable. It could be that Liam may be right.”_ _

__She bows her head and he stares at her, deep in thought. He didn't view her as a daughter or adolescent but not a sexual attraction either. Part of her was youthful and dangerous, a resemblance to his own son. Sometimes when he looked at her, flashes of Liam crossed over her face and boosted belief in him._ _

__“Although,” he turns away when she looks up, “I wonder how those two will talk Tomlinson out of his anger toward us– He’s a very blunt and forward man, much like his uncle.”_ _

__Secretive, she smirks, “Something tells me we don’t have to worry about the Brummie in that regard.”_ _

__“Oh, really?” he challenges, studying her as he had his son earlier. “Because Liam just told the Grozny very differently.”_ _

__She lifts a shoulder, unaffected. “They're intelligent, charming, handsome.” She tilts her head to the side. “I have faith in them. Don't you?”_ _

__“As do I, but you’re apparently privy to information I know nothing of.”_ _

__“I am only aware of what’s already been shared, love. The boys will tell us both in due time.”_ _

__Geoff hates being intentionally left in the dark._ _

__As the most sovereign crime boss in England's largest city, he reigned from strategy and honesty. He needed the insight about enemies and counsel about plans to rule his domain. However, with Gemma by his side and that glint in her eye, she never steered him astray when holding back. If it'd been anyone in the lower ranks, he would have them tortured and disembodied by daybreak because traitors required elimination without delay._ _

__In absolute trust, he surrenders. “Yes, we don’t need Liam jumping the gun like he did with those dealings a couple years back.”_ _

__He pauses again, taking her tumbler and setting both back on the drink cart._ _

__“You know, considering Paul’s murder and the strange disappearance of Bobby Horan, Louis and Niall have taken the empire and transitioned into their roles better than most of us expected. From what I recall, Louis was quite the little shit and Niall, a prankster.”_ _

__“It seems all of these boys have matured.” She notices the time on the large grandfather clock in the corner. “As has the time. Shall we?”_ _

__***_ _

__He chauffeurs her the short drive to Harry's home in affluent Islington and escorts her by the arm up the entry corridor to the main second storey, pink-tipped fingers squeezing the mahogany rail and high stilettos echoing each step._ _

__By the time they arrived, Harry and Liam are sat in the drawing room and huddled around an oval walnut table covered by loose paper. A large crystal ceiling rose casted a curved bright glow above, lit iron sconces and lanterns lined along the walls._ _

__“Where's mum?” she inquires as soon as they emerge, eying the adjacent staircase that led up to the third floor while Geoff took her long coat._ _

__Liam writes urgently and replies, “Dropped her off home. Said she'll see you tomorrow.”_ _

__She and Geoff sat across from one another on opposite sofas beside their family, her side close against Harry’s as he sips on scotch. “So, what are you two up to?”_ _

__“We firmly insist, moving forward with the Bronze Boys is in the best interest of the Grozny.” Liam puts down the pencil and rubs his hands together. “Jimmy is quite opposed, as are a couple others, but if we let Birmingham go, let's face it; there’s the possibility of our enemies marching to London in no time.”_ _

__Gemma snickers mockingly. “A Tomlinson and Horan falling to another outfit? Are you joking?”_ _

__“From what I’ve seen of Birmingham, I’ve learned that the entire population is loyal to the Bronzers. They have eyes everywhere. But I do believe it’d be in our best interest to aid them,” Harrys says, trying to sound persuasive._ _

__Geoff snarls, deep frown tugging on his lips. “And why should we help? Tomlinson wants to be a leader, let him be one.”_ _

__His plans of expansion didn't automatically include the Bronze Boys. His plan saw them as support of the Grozny, not the other way around, for the new territory, which would be second to ruling London. Birmingham was optional as far as he was concerned, preferring to take the city than save it._ _

__Liam scratches the side of his neck nervously. “Malik, the bookmaker, we've worked with him in the past but he's nearly exclusive with them. He's been to London a bit in the last weeks doing business with Cowell, we shouldn't have him as anything but an ally if he's gonna be hanging around.”_ _

__“Or,” Geoff contemplates, “we can just get rid of Malik and the problem.”_ _

__Gemma murmurs smartly, “And his beauty,” to which Harry’s bony elbow nudged her._ _

__Liam furrows his brows. “That is unwise as he has friendly connections from Wales to Bradford. Look, Geoff, we need presence in the north and we need Birmingham out of anyone but our reach. Keeping London won't be as easy once we divide our time and group; people will notice and come after what's ours.”_ _

__Gemma watches Geoff stare intently at his son, then exchanges a mutual look with him to ask, “What would you have us do?”_ _

__Harry turns to his sister. “Establish trust with the Boys, build a confidence so they know we aren't the bad guys. Tommo won't ever be on board with the Grozny unless we prove ourselves to him.”_ _

__“You're saying the effort of…building trust will get us Tomlinson’s allegiance?”_ _

__Liam answers, “No. But it gets us a chance at one, which we lack now. Either way, preventing their downfall is necessary and edges us ahead. Their involvement in our plans can be handled after.”_ _

__Geoff rises to his feet and Gemma mirrors. “As you both feel so strongly about this, I'm relying on your discretion in regards to the Bronze Boys. Make the arrangements, son.”_ _

__Liam nods, therefore ending the discussion. His eyes catch Harry’s and they exit the drawing room together._ _

__“I hope you know what you agreed to. This could very well come to naught.”_ _

__“Yes, it very well could put us in a place of weakness,” Geoff rubs at his chin, deep in thought. “But I think it’s time Liam shows initiative. He will, after all, take my place one day. I have to let him spread his wings sometime.”_ _

__Gemma looks at Geoff in surprise. It seems Liam isn’t the only one with a new side to him. She smiles, a twinkle in her eye. She pats Geoff’s face softly._ _

__“I do believe you’re finally acting like a father to Liam. I think this positive reinforcement will do him good. Make him strong.”_ _

__“Yes, Liam never did take well to disparagement.” Geoff coughs, an attempt at hiding his pride in his son. “If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I have a meeting I must attend.”_ _

__“And I have to rendezvous with Jimmy.” She looks at Geoff, broadcasting what he already knows - Jimmy was an arsehole at the meeting. “He and I have a few things we need to discuss.”_ _

__“You need to find your amusement elsewhere. Honestly, Gemma, the man is scum.”_ _

__“I’ve already heard it all from Harry,” mirth shining through her voice. “I can watch out for myself.”_ _

__“Of that I have no doubt.” He glances at his time piece. “Looks like we won’t have time to discuss the East End deal, as I’m already late for my other meeting.”_ _

__“You can’t possibly be late. You’re always so prompt.”_ _

__“Late for me. It’s already half past.” Geoff grabs his suit jacket and hat from the coat rack. As he places his homburg on his head, he parts with, “Take care.”_ _


	4. go in guns blazin'

Niall narrows his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. “Where ya heading again?”

Louis stands up and buttons his peacoat. “I told you. I need to run an errand.”

“And that errand is?”

“It doesn’t directly concern you. So there’s no reason for you to know.” 

“Stubborn as a mule, ye are,” criticizes Niall.

“But also as endearing,” he jests, plucking the Irishman’s cap to put atop his own head.

“Enduring,” Niall corrects with a soft smile and ruffle of his hair. “Fookin’ ham.”

Louis gives his shoulder a squeeze as he walks past. “Be back late, so see ya in the morning.”

*** 

He’s never been to Oxford in his damn life…and why would he? The middle of nowhere countryside with less than pitiful athletic performance – professional and scholarly. The people-herd, which he liked to refer to the relocation of London’s overpopulation as, would make the area more appealing but had yet to transpire.

He waits until the railcar empties of its few commuters before dreadfully shuffling onto the platform, cursing under his breath at the desolation of this place. By the far side of the head house stood Liam in a light blue overcoat and untied black scarf, inhaling a brown and sight set on the Bronzer.

Louis takes the short stub from Liam’s dry grip. “Where the hell d’ya bring me, Payno?”

Liam starts walking, Louis beside him. “Quiet city. Different than ours, no?”

They walk in absolute silence for nearly an hour, sneaking side glances and accidental arm bumps the sole indicator of the other’s presence. Not even the crunch of snow beneath their feet processed to them, deafened by whirling thoughts; Louis consumed by refraining his violent wishes and Liam cycling through what to say.

A small building surrounded by pasture on an empty lane was their destination, a quiet inn with three customers sitting at the counter. Full-height, half-length walls on either end divided the lavatory and staircase to the overnight room from the main area. Situated in the corners were small tables with two chairs, one of which Liam leads them and pulls a seat for Louis before visiting the barkeep.

He returns with two scotches and a bright but falling grin, the barkeep also smiling behind at him.

“Come here often?” Louis accuses, arms crossed and jacket shed. “Neutral zone my arse.”

Liam hands him a glass, clean although murky from aged use and at least not chipped on the rim like his own. “Sometimes. Just…just to come. Never busy.”

They take a few drinks to warm their feet and smooth the sharp atmosphere, Louis focusing on Liam's face. The Grozzo is extremely handsome, soft features and rough edges misleading who he actually is. All toned muscle beneath silk tan skin, dreamy deep irises disguising a twisted violent mind, beautiful pink mouth that spit unimaginable commands, veiny arms that have shattered bones and taken lives. He has this aura of being in control and completely aware of every little thing, not in cocky arrogance as a man like him could have but subtle confidence.

Liam, noticing Louis’ gaze, initiated talks. “The immigrants and refugees are flocking north, as you well know, and I suspect even greater numbers will wander further north in the coming months…away from London, yes, but also the dense conditions. They'll seek Birmingham as a sanctuary of sorts, and with them will come enemies.”

“You speak as if I wasn’t aware of that,” the Bronzer ridicules with a dismissive wave.

Liam’s forehead wrinkles and he leans forward. “The Grozny,” the side of Louis’ mouth twitches, “are offering you certainty for your solidarity.”

“Pray tell,” Louis growls, “why would I need such a thing from you?”

“Because someone has their eyes fixed on you…more now that the Grozny renounced relations.” He looked away. “A lot is about to change in London and England…and we Grozny intend on profiting from these changes.”

Louis chugs the remainder and exhales in satisfaction, tone decisive. “Profit wit’ someone else cuz my Boys won’t toss ya a bloody penny.”

Liam truthfully is astonished at how ignorant and clueless the Bronzer Boss acted. “Tommo, I'm telling you that someone is out for you and the Grozny won't stop to take you over–”

“Well, ya failed already at that,” he jeers, lifting his hat momentarily to air his scalp, “when ya killed our boss, but I welcome ya to try again so I get me turn.”

Liam grows frustrated. “Stop saying that, we had no–”

“Aye, Payno, but ya did.” The contagious frustration emits onto Louis, who jumps up to stand over Liam and grab his collar, patience gone. “Now why the fuck did ya drag me here and waste me time?”

“Because the Grozny didn’t murder your damned uncle,” different colored eyes lock vehemently, the brown and the blue clash with exasperation and interest “and I will die trying to convince you.”

Vulnerability isn’t a characteristic Louis wears often, especially not in front of people who aren’t in his inner circle. Feeling any emotion at all was a feat in itself but revealing it was a different story – and the story now has Tommo showing vulnerability to Liam of the Grozny about his dear deceased uncle. Something about this Grozzo eased his insides, even with fingers wrapped around his throat like at Baron’s, and it was uncontrollable. Something about him…

Liam runs a hand through his hair and Louis releases his hold, falling into his chair stunned. “Wha–” Louis’ eyes glisten, cheekbones as pink as his ears. “What?”

The sudden emptiness in his eyes raises alarm in every corner of Liam’s brain, part of him knowing it had to be said and the other part knowing he shouldn’t have. That’s all Liam’s life was, really; an equal balance of right and wrong for every single situation – every action, negotiation, move, murder, deal, handshake, meeting, order, everything was 50/50.

He clears his throat. “You-You have this vendetta against us but Geoff and Gemma never had a hit out on him.” 

In an unexpectedly fast motion, Louis digs in the front pocket of his coat and tosses onto the table a ring identical to the one on Liam’s finger. He sniffs, daring, “Try again, Payno.”

A surge of anger shoots throughout Liam, breaking from Louis to stare in horror at the platinum jewelry. It had been Gemma’s idea originally, the rings, as a gift to his father and expanding to the whole clan as a reward for loyalty.

Liam thoughtlessly slams his glass to the tabletop and scotch splashes over the rim, a drop landing on his palm as he picks up the ring and smears over the smooth gem. He becomes engrossed by the etched number and tries to remember to whom it belonged, hoping helplessly that a name would miraculously appear scrolled across the inside.

No such luck and Liam looks back to Louis watching carefully, vowing, “I’ll find who did this.”

Louis starts to argue, “No– That ring is all I have from–” but quiets once Liam slides off his own, shaky hand grabbing Louis’ right and pushing it on his fourth finger; eerily, it fits snug and perfect.

Liam puts on the slightly oversized ring laying on the table and affirms, “I will fix this. I won’t stop until I do.”

Walls slowly rebuilding, Louis sneers, though poorly, sound more alike to a snore. “Don’t make promises ya can’t keep, Grozzo.”

“I don’t…Louis.”

Life freezes for the Bronzer then, a metal band strange around his finger. It marks the first time Liam called him by his given name and not his last, Tommo, or Bronzer. Maybe the scotch or flood of emotion got to their heads, Louis’ from his uncle and Liam’s from redemption, or maybe something is different about Liam, and even Harry, compared to a typical Grozzo. He doesn’t know if it is who they were as people or just towards the Bronze Boys, but he has no doubt that he'll find out.

He asks, piecing together his hand between both of Liam’s and their faces closer than before, “Is this a bad idea?”

With that question, he pushes in all his chips and the entire rail of the Bronze Boys, betting everything. Uncle Paul would’ve called him stupid and disgraceful (rightfully so) with a probable swift punt to the arse, but his mother would’ve told him to go with his gut and follow his heart. He admired his uncle but adored his mother, so he took her judgment or would-be’s whenever in doubt of his decisions.

Because Liam can still kill him in an instant, essentially – every second could be his last. Liam never promised protection, allegiance, or loyalty; he promises to play detective and that was all. 

Until he replies, “We’ve both done worse.”

And that ease, that acknowledgement of their semi-hidden and assumed pasts, unspoken yet well familiar, that is enough for Louis’ acceptance. Why so doubtlessly? Well, he had trusted Liam up to this point and received an oath for his uncle; he will keep rolling those dice for as long as he has them.

Now more confident, Louis leans across the table and meets Liam halfway to collide in a kiss, slightly open lips widening for a brief yet full tongue contest. Liam retreats first, too aware of the few patrons next to them and the consensus of Catholic conservatism that dictates beyond the university. Louis’ breath and nose brush his face, hazy eyed and deliciously tempting, and all he knows is that he needs more of it; he doesn't want to stop.

He fists the front of Louis’ sweater and pulls him up into another kiss, pushing him backwards to the lavatory. The shiver that vibrates down Louis’ spine when Liam curls a finger against his prostate, though, releases a careless urge, an abandonment of self and rivalry in favor of indulgence. Louis is a heavy breather and every exhale in Liam’s mouth makes him more desperate…desperate for more.

Trousers and briefs around their ankles, Louis faces the wall and whimpers as Liam eases inside of him, hips rocking back and tightness stretching. Their height difference allows Liam to bury his cock without either of them teetering on tiptoes, simply flexing his knees to thrust in completely and Louis biting his arm to muffle the moans tickling his throat.

Sex with Niall and Zayn was amazing, of course it was – he had it often enough – but also necessity because he rarely slept with anyone else (well, there was a professional footballer but strictly for business). They were his brothers first and foremost, not just accomplices and shag buddies, and the only people he’d trust with his life. Sex with Liam, on the other hand, is intense, a clear energy of power battling between them. Even Liam in the dominant role fucking him can’t erase the effect Louis has to make him lose his senses with every slap of skin and crumble at every gasp.

Maybe it was inevitable that they were to happen – not only from Louis’ uncle and the ring but as strong young leaders of the British crime scene. Maybe it was inevitable that they met at Baron Cowell’s. Maybe it was inevitable that they would join forces. Maybe, it was inevitable for them to destroy one another. Whatever the cards draw, Louis enjoys the hand that was dealt to Liam and him cottaging in an Oxford pub and will keep playing those cards.

Needless to say, neither were to return home that night.

***

Birmingham streets and pubs were mostly deserted on weekday mornings, men at the factories or docks and women at home or offices. Those wandering before noon were likely jobless, homeless, or drunkards who urinated on curbs and slept on sidewalks – the same handful of filth day after day. The Boys would toss pennies at the feet of a random few daily, not definitively tracking but somewhat mindful to cycle through so as to scatter the charity and not give in to greedy demands or tearful pleas.

Niall half-carries a sloshed and stoned Zayn from Ram’s towards Caroline's, concluding a bender with some of the Boys for the day. He loves Tommo, they all do, but having the sole duty of protecting his back at all times makes Niall not able to completely let loose as often as he’d like because he needed to always be ready for action. So, with his boss being out of town for further talks with Liam meant his guarding halted, ranking peaked, and partying commenced.

He is drunk but less so than mere hours prior, retiring the bottle of single scotch he started at sunset and committing to ale at dawn. On the other hand, Zayn alternated grass and gin until Niall gripped his waist and took him outside; even then, a bread roll and glass flung from each hand to the floor. Not that Niall was watching the whole time as Rory used every attempt of textbook charm to rouse the blushing bookie most of the night.

Halfway to his destination and head like concrete on Niall's shoulder, Zayn leans heavily to the side and giggles. “Ah, Nialler, whatta night, eh?”

Niall holds tighter and can't help pressing his nose to Zayn's hair, catching a moment that likely wouldn't again be remembered but one he felt so comfortable in. “Mmmh.” He kisses Zayn's head and grins. “Was fun, wunnit?”

Morning fog lingers in the streets, thin mist softening the rough edges but not concealing the usual sights; romantic in a misleading way of being blissfully invisible.

Zayn tugs Niall's open coat zipper and looks up crookedly, chin brushing his jaw and dark lashes fluttering over glossy eyes. “You’re always great, love. Ya been stressed like Lou since Paul, ya two. Makes me feel…dunno, not great.”

Niall frowns and slows his pace, eyes darting. “Not been easy, no,” he agrees thoughtfully. “Breaks me heart seein’ him sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Zayn whispers before, in a flash, a surge of his high comes back around and his face brightens. “Ya my best mates, you know? I hang ‘round coz youse some honest gangsters.”

Niall combusts into laughter, barely letting himself be consumed by humor when, amidst the echo of his outburst, he hears an abnormal sound that cuts his laughter short. He stands stock still and listens intently to the normal sounds of grumbling tramps, mewling felines, tumbling leafs, rolling litter, and clanking machinery. But beneath the slum’s lullaby, he hears a wisp or flap comparable to a windy flag or snapped cloak that was misplaced for the spot they were currently standing.

Amusement vanishes instantly, senses sharpen to their surroundings and strays from his partner. His auditory perception dulls Zayn's oblivious rambles against his neck about leaving his knapsack at Louis’ and needing to begin plans for next month's events. His analytical vision zeroes in on open gaps – raised window screens and propped doors – and covers for protection – a parked delivery truck and overfilled skip. Keeping their walk slower to hide his in tune awareness, he subtly directs them to zigzag and loosely grabs his holster.

Pop, pop.

A gun goes off. Niall feels Zayn’s weight thrash forward as his mentality clicks into survival mode. Zayn screeches at the strong force which initially alters his balance then transfers to spread hot painful shocks down his arm and back. The first bullet is lodged in his shoulder and the onset of bruises was beginning to bloom into a deep aubergine across his collarbone and upper shoulder. The impact of the second shot caused Zayn to fall back, whiplash at full force, his sternum taking the brunt of the movement, hence the further bruising. Even though the echo of the shots were loud, Niall’s focus is completely on Zayn. 

Niall guides them to the ground behind a shop’s open door, body thrown into Zayn's and landing on top of him. Arm with the pistol outstretched, he scrambles off Zayn and shoves him harshly to the brick, crawling to peek around the door and seeing the gunman walk towards them. He distantly registers Zayn's pained moans, ears and senses continuing to muffle anything not having to with the shooter. Looping thoughts of killing the bastard fuels him as two shots fired precisely no less than five meters from where they crouched.

The assailant has excellent aim and bullet grouping, making Niall believe Zayn is no accident but rather the bull’s eye…but why…who? It has to be a hitman, the shooting too efficient and frequent beyond any amateur. Niall was clueless as to how he is supposed to defeat a professional killer but lines up and fires three bullets, the last hitting its target. He got the bastard.

The assailant hasn't fully dropped to the ground before Niall dashes towards him, emptying two more in the slumping body just to make sure. He knows every sharp shooter in Birmingham and, standing over him, this lad isn't one he had pinned for betrayal. 

Breathing harshly, he runs to the alley then down the adjacent street, looking to rooftops and around corners for evidence of a backup but finding none. He hears the most devastating howl and his automatic bodily response is to bolt back to a bloody and distressed Zayn, the dead gunman surrounded by gutter rats stripping that tosser down.

Zayn presses his wound with all the strength he can, back arched and neck flexed, crying out at the top of his lungs. Niall falls to his knees and yanks off his jacket to wrap tightly under Zayn's armpit and up to his neck, shushing helplessly below the ear-piercing sobs and screams while tying the sleeves over his biceps.

Zayn’s cries thundered in Niall’s ears, louder than the crack of the gunshots. 

Although mentally coherent, the pain paralyzes Zayn into shock physically and causes his mind to completely blank, his dark eyes losing their warmth and giving way to a gray absence that Niall found he couldn’t bear. He forces himself to remain calm because he too wanted to go frantic but needed more than anything for Zayn to be okay…

Niall softly pulls on Zayn’s right arm, winding it around his waist, careful not to strain Zayn's injured shoulder. Forcing Zayn to put all of his weight on him, Niall takes the brunt of Zayn’s broken and bruised up body. Zayn’s low groaning fills up Niall’s ears, even more desperation stirring to life and prompting him to move faster.

He kisses his forehead and only then becomes aware of tears running down his own cheeks. “I’ve gotcha, love,” he murmurs and dashes for the nearest medical facility: the mental institution.

And in a strange way, it seems more appropriate than the hospital to him.

Niall’s eyes start welling up, his voice breaking, “C’mon Zayn, we’ve got to get you inside. Away from all this…” 

Zayn is in more pain then he lets on. Niall knows no matter how well Zayn hides, even the tiniest of winces, that he is undoubtedly in agony and would be laid up for weeks after. If he survives. 

Zayn loses consciousness en route, nearly giving him a heart attack when the cries silenced and muscles drooped in his strong arms. Arriving at the sanitorium, every nurse stops in their tracks at seeing the widely-known Bronzer, stunned enough to overlook the bleeding damaged man he carried until he roared, “He’s been bloody shot, ya fookin’ shower of cunts! Move!”

One orderly fetches a stretcher and Niall lays him down, the others scatter to search for a doctor, call the main hospital for an ambulance, and measure Zayn's pulse. They untie the leather jacket and strip his shirt, dropping both to the floor and inspecting the bullet wound as well as the rest of him.

Niall stops crying but almost restarts at the dark hole tainting the otherwise flawless skin. He steps back, a medical crowd swarming like bees around an inert Zayn, and ignores inquiries regarding his own condition and what had happened. None of it seems real, he doesn't want it to be, occurring so fast with a fuzzy head from lack of sleep and excess of alcohol. If he had any real Irish luck, then he'd be imagining all of this.

The ambulance arrives shortly and the world moves around his frozen stance, Zayn is transferred to a different cot and hauled into the back of the large truck. Medics all but give up on treating Niall, going back to their regular work once the ambulance doors locked in Zayn.

“You're welcome to ride along in front,” a man in white uniform offers, waiting five seconds to no response before returning behind the wheel and taking off.

The sharp siren diminishes but Niall doesn't move, gazing down the street even after the van that is gone from view. His handgun burns under his waistband, growing heavier the longer he stood there. He feels enraged, nauseous, drained, and, most of all, heartbroken. He wishes it had been him who got the bullet…he wishes so badly that he had stepped to the left one second sooner…he wishes terribly that Zayn hadn't been there.

***

He shuffles in a trance for a while, unable to silence emotions and overcome exhaustion, that he doesn't realize his feet lead him to St. Aidan's until cathedral bells ring eight times overhead.

Niall tries to quietly open the doors to St. Aidan’s, but they still creek a little. He bypasses the baptismal water fountain and enters the nave, a mother and child the only visitors as he staggers down the aisle. She gasps in recognition at the grimy underboss, bows her head in respect, and immediately pulls her child out of the pew; after they depart, it is empty and he is completely alone.

Staring at the large wooden cross hung from the ceiling, his mind gradually begins to come together but only crumbles his heart as a result. He collapses behind the altar and bends forward, screaming deep from his stomach and pulling hard at his hair. Where the fuck was Louis? 

Niall finds himself kneeling on a pew, head down, hands folded in prayer. His hands are shaking, his brow furrowing, head trying to screw on right. It was _so fucking close_. Zayn almost died. 

After a few minutes Niall’s face starts to become wet. Silent tears streaming down his face. He muffles a sob and roughly wipes his eyes, shifting his balance on the pew. He is struggling to compose himself. He needs to get out. The silence is too much.

***

Zayn on the brink of death has him blarting into his second bottle, arm embracing it like it’s his best mate. Good old whiskey. A sore neck is keeping him from entirely falling asleep, blurry eyes and exhaustion be damned. 

It was months ago, but Niall can recall the exact movements that led up to the awakening of his feelings for Zayn. The Boys were celebrating a successful ammunition run and had a few too many. It was the first time Zayn truly worked with them and not too long after Paul was left for dead in the streets.

Even from the first, Niall was drawn to Zayn. Zayn had that effect on most people but Niall found himself enraptured by the way Zayn talked numbers. He made it sound holy and wonderful, and honestly, Niall never considered anything numerical to be something worth salivating over, but he was in awe of the rhapsodies that fell from Zayn’s lips.

That night at his flat, as hazy and blurred from drink as he was, Niall could still recall the taste of Zayn – all smoke and spice. The cloud that surrounded the bookmaker, the veil of contrived mystery. And yet, Niall saw the loneliness, the slight falter in his smile that seemed almost disappointed. Niall knew the look of someone who wanted more for himself.

Not that Niall was ambitious by any means in regards to his rank amongst the Bronze Boys. But, lately Niall wanted more than a quick frisk with one of the newcomers or his standard romp with the beloved McMaar daughter, known for her street smarts and beguiling charms. Hell, even messing around with Louis was getting to be too routine, fun as it was.

Zayn, so full of grace and mesmerising raw beauty, vigorously swimming in his veins, providing him with the high he was so longing for – giving him a heady sense of purpose. That there was more to the game than beating down junkyard roughs and those more vulnerable than their crew. They could rule over Small Heath with a new brand of conviction, unmistakable from their previous aimlessness. 

Zayn brought new light, new vision to their work, but above all - wisdom. That coupled with the Boys heart and gumption, their overall moxie, made them stand out recently amongst the Cheapside gangs. They reigned victorious due to the levity and strategy with defensive tactics, not brutal violence for violence’s sake. The Boys were no longer in the game of shaking down slogger youths and breaking windows with the sole intent to rile up the coppers.

Niall finally found the glory that Bobby always babbled on about when bludgeoned with drink and good humour. Zayn brought so much meat to the table for the Boys rocketing success and Niall was ready to scarf down every morsel Zayn would offer up.

He had found his way home through the alcohol and drug infused haze. His feet moving on autopilot, his mind still replaying the scene of Zayn getting shot. He knows he should sleep. He’s been awake for hours. The haze of the booze finally settles in. Niall falls back on his bed, almost immediately falling asleep.

_The Boys get piss drunk that night. Niall won most rounds, of course, but Louis did make away with 200 quid. He couldn’t stop boasting about his winnings to the entire patronage of the bar and then the streets once they had left the pub._

_Zayn straggles behind, his eyes bloodshot and movements lazy from drink. Niall hung back with him, making sure he got home in one piece. Louis is heading toward Lottie’s._

_“Well, boys I’m off to spend my winnings.”_

_“You’ll lose that in a minute.”_

_“Oh hush, Nialler. I’m going to be a good boy and only spend half.”_

_“Mhmm, sure. Champagne isn’t cheap and I know Lottie’s girls have expensive taste.” Louis shrugs._

_“I’ll see you tomorrow.”_

_“Night, Tommo.”_

_“Good night.”_

_Louis’ cries of joy could be heard in the distance. “What a night! What a bloody perfect night!”_

_“Yeah, it’s somethin’ alright,” Niall grumbles._

_Zayn laughs._

_“What’s got you so sour? You won most of the pot.”_

_“Eh, jus’ knackered, s’all.”_

_“Me too. ‘Bout to pass out right here in this alley.”_

_Zayn makes as if to sit down._

_“No ya don’t. C’mere. That's a lad.”_

_Niall pulls Zayn up. Zayn’s a bit wobbly and Niall holds his arm until Zayn’s equilibrium kicks in._

_“Whoa, I drank too much.”_

_“Ye did.”_

_“Mind if I stay at yours?”_

_Niall hesitates for a moment, mulling Zayn’s request over in his head. The temptation to say yes almost sprang from his lips._

_“I mean, it’s closer and all. Didn’t mean to intrude if you don’t have the space or since it’s last minute.”_

_“No, no, it’s fine. Just wasn’t expecting it, I guess. We barely know each other.”_

_“We know each other fine. Been workin’ together a while, right?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“So, can I?”_

_Niall swears that Zayn flutters his unfairly long lashes. What a complete tosser._

_“‘Course, boyo.”_

_Zayn smiles at him, all teeth._

_“You’re a good mate, Nialler.”_

_Niall looks dejected._

_“That I am.”_

_“What’s wrong?”_

_“Erm, nothin’. I’m good. Promise.”_

_“Niall,” Zayn whines. “Tell me. You can’t keep it to yourself.”_

_“I can damn well try.”_

_Niall attempts to change the subject. “So, you talk to Caroline about Gigi?”_

_Zayn sighs. “Yeah, I did.”_

_“And?”_

_“Niall, do you really want to know?”_

_“Erm, not really. But it’s something to talk about.”_

_A silence comes over the conversation. Zayn speaks up._

_“You’re sure you don’t mind me coming to yours?”_

_“You too far gone, mate. C’mon, let’s get out of the street.”_

_Niall takes most of Zayn’s weight, the drink overpowering Zayn’s sense of balance._

_“Too much whiskey. Too much,” Zayn mumbles. “Me heads gon’ hurt in the mornin’.”_

_Niall softly laughs. “Sure will.”_

_It takes longer than usual for Niall to make it back to his flat due to carrying most of Zayn’s weight. Drunk Zayn was useless. He’ll have to keep an eye on him in the future when meeting with potential allies so they don’t look upon Zayn as a weakness for the Boys. That being said, Zayn was a lovely drunk, so light and happy. He’s very reserved when sober and it was a nice change to see him so uninhibited._

_“Niall.”_

_“Yes?”_

_“How long you and Louis been together?”_

_“What? No. We’re not together.”_

_“But I saw him lean on you earlier.”_

_“Oh, that. We’re just a close knit gang is all. I mean, sometimes Louis and I mess around, but it’s nothing serious, ya know?”_

_Zayn hums and then slowly nods, taking in Niall’s words._

_“Are you serious with anyone at the moment?”_

_It seemed like Zayn was sobering up a little. Niall rebuffs, “No.” He scratches behind his ear. “I mean,” his voice going softer, trying not to be harsh, “not in the strictest sense. I am serious about someone but nothing has happened as of yet.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_They’ve reached Niall’s flat and he pulls out his keys. They descend the stairs._

_“It’s not much, but it’s comfy.”_

_“I’m sure it’s fine.”_

_Niall welcomes Zayn inside. It’s small, a few chairs set near the door, a tiny fireplace in the corner that Niall goes to light, bringing much needed warmth to the place. Zayn points to the sofa, “This where I’m sleeping?”_

_“Oh no, you’re the guest. I’ll sleep there and you can take the cot.”_

_“A guest?” Zayn laughs. “We’re mates. You don’t have to treat me all formal-like.”_

_“I’m not. Just being kind. Please. Take the cot.”_

_Zayn sits on the sofa. Niall sighs._

_“Let me go grab a duvet for ya.”_

_Niall returns to Zayn laying on his back, staring at the ceiling._

_“You got any whiskey?”_

_“Are you serious?” Niall says with a laugh._

_Zayn laughs with him. “Yeah, it’s not quite warm in here yet. I’m cold and need some warmin’ up,'' Zayn says cheekily._

_Niall blushes. He places the folded duvet on the sofa next to Zayn._

_“Good night, then.”_

_“I’m not joking about the whiskey. I could use some. If you don’t mind.”_

_Niall isn’t sure this is a good idea, but acquiesces because he can’t deny Zayn anything. He pours a drink for both of them. Zayn sits up to accept his drink. Niall’s fingers brush Zayn’s as he hands him the glass, his eyes flick up to Zayn’s and they stare at one another for a moment. Niall breaks his gaze and takes a small sip of his whiskey. Zayn knocks his back entirely, the whiskey giving him a small tremor from the fast intake._

_“Damn, that’s some good stuff.”_

_“It was a gift.”_

_“From a friend?” Zayn tries to catch Niall’s eyes again, that pretty shade of blue was intoxicating._

_“From me dad.”_

_“Oh.”_

_Zayn knows it’s been a while since Niall has seen his father. Louis confided to Zayn that Niall and Greg always hoped the IRA would stop hunting Bobby. It’d taken such a toll on the boys. They missed their father so much it hurt._

_“Yeah, so you want another or you good?”_

_Zayn reaches out his glass and Niall pours him a second drink. Niall sips at his again. They sit in silence together, neither uncomfortable. Zayn leans on Niall’s shoulder. Niall stiffens._

_“D’ye ever wonder how it is we got to where we are?”_

_“For me, it’s a family business. So, not really.” An afterthought. “Guess I really didn’t have much of a choice.”_

_“I think about it from time to time. I always did so well in school, maths was my strength.”_

_“You don’t say.”_

_“Oh shush you,” Zayn teases. “But I do wonder if I stayed on the straight and narrow path, how much things would be different.”_

_“Probably not. In Small Heath, most folks end up on our side. It’s how we run this town. Just how it is,” Niall says with a shrug._

_“Maybe I should’ve stayed away from you lot.”_

_“Prat. You love us.”_

_Zayn turns his head, still cradled in the crook of Niall’s neck. He breathes deeply. He considers if what he wants to do is a good idea. Zayn pulls back, gathers his courage, and leans in to peck Niall’s neck. Niall’s nostrils flare._

_“What’d you do that for?”_

_“I dunno. Just felt like it.”_

_Zayn sets his half empty glass on the table. Niall mirrors._

_They move closer together and their lips meet. It’s a slow kiss. They press and pull back, press and pull back. After a few passes, their foreheads touch, needing to catch a breath._

_“Wow.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_They kiss again, this time Niall’s hand cups the back of Zayn’s head, pulling him in as close as possible. Zayn sucks on Niall’s bottom lip, pulling it with a pop. He draws back to catch another breath and Niall follows, wanting more._

_Niall knocks Zayn on his back, attacking his lips at full force. He straddles Zayn, whose hips buck up for some friction. Niall groans and presses down. Zayns moans at the pressure. Their actions are frenzied._

_They kiss for what seems like forever. Niall has a passing thought about how the whiskey and fire weren’t needed after all. The heat between them is more than enough to keep out the night chill.  
Eventually they break and Zayn smiles sleepily. _

_Niall lays down beside him, they fall asleep with their heads pressed together._

_When Niall awakes, Zayn is gone._


End file.
